MERCHANTS  FROM 
CATHAY 


MERCHANTS  FROM 
CATHAY 


BY 


WILLIAM  ROSE  BENET 


THE   CENTURY  CO.  NEW  YORK 
MCMXIII 


Copyright,  1913,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co 


Published,  September,  1913 


£533   Mf 


TO 
MY  WIFE 

Braver  than  sea-going  ships  with  the  dawn  in  their  sails, 
Than  the  wind  before  dawn  more  healing  and  fragrant  and  free, 
Fairer  than  sight  of  a  city  all  white,  from  the  mountain-top  viewed  in  the  vales, 
Or  the  silver-bright  flakes  of  the  moonlight  in  lakes,  when  the  moon  rides  the 
clouds  and  the  forest  awakes, 

You  are  to  me! 

For  you  are  to  me  what  the  boivstring  is  to  the  shaft, 
Speeding  my  purpose  aloft  and  aflame  and  afar. 
Through  the  thick  of  the  fight,  in  your  eyes'  steady  light  my  soul  hath  seen 

splendor,  and  laughed. 

Now,  however  I  tend  betwixt  foeman  and  friend  through  the  riddle  of  Life  to 
Death's  light  at  the  end, 

I  ride  for  your  star! 


273344 


The  author  wishes  to  acknowledge  the  gener 
osity  of  the  following  magazines  for  the  respect 
ive  poems  reprinted  from  their  pages.  Thanks? 
are  due  to  The  Century  Magazine  for  "Charms," 
"The  Boast  of  the  Tides/'  "The  Marvelous  Mun- 
chausen,"  "Invulnerable/'  "His  Ally/'  "Kitual," 
"Emergency/'  and  "Scamps  of  Eomance";  to  The 
American  Magazine  for  "The  Argo's  Chanty/' 
"The  Blind  Legion/'  and  "Autumn";  to  The 
Churchman  for  "The  Young  Brother/'  "I  saw  an 
angel  standing  in  the  sun/'  "The  Wrestlers/' 
"Birds  of  the  Air";  to  The  Independent  for  "The 
Heart's  Colloquy/'  "Morgiana  Dances/'  "The 
Fairy  Eealm/'  "The  Parlous  Thing,"  and  "What 
Said  the  Little  Admiral?"  to  The  Smart  Set  for 
"Braggarts,"  "The  Brawl,"  and  "Night  Watch 
ers"  ;  to  The  Sunset  and  Pacific  Monthly  for  "The 
Drowned  Hidalgo  Dreams,"  "The  Eunners,"  "The 
Golden  Day,"  "Dame  Holiday,"  "The  Loosed 
Dryad";  to  McClure's  Magazine  for  "Merchants 
from  Cathay";  to  Harper's  Weekly,  for  "The 
Years  to  Be,"  (copyright  1911);  to  The  Forum 
for  " After- Sight" ;  to  The  International  for 
"Lilia's  Tress";  to  The  Lyric  Year  for  "Pater 
nity";  to  The  Yale  Review  for  "The  Anvil  of 
Souls";  and  to  The  Poetry  Journal  for  "Fairy 
Song." 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  AWAKENING  OF  THE  TREES 11 

FALSORUM  DEORUM  CULTOR 12 

THE  BIRD  FANCIER 13 

LIGHTNING 16 

THE  HERITAGE  FOREGONE 17 

CHARMS 19 

THE  LOST  GODS  ABIDING 20 

THE  ANVIL  OF  SOULS 22 

THE  ARGO'S  CHANTY 23 

THE  BOAST  OF  THE  TIDES 24 

THE  YOUNG  BROTHER 25 

BROADWAY 26 

THE  YEARS  TO  BE 27 

THE  MARVELOUS  MUNCHAUSEN 28 

THE  DROWNED  HIDALGO  DREAMS 30 

WHEN  GOD  WEARIED 31 

MERCHANTS  FROM  CATHAY 33 

THE  HEART'S  COLLOQUY 34 

THE  RIVAL  CELESTIAL 35 

THE  SNARE  OF  THE  FOWLER 35 

INVULNERABLE 36 

THE  SECOND  COVENANT 37 

"I  SAW  AN  ANGEL  STANDING  IN  THE  SUN" 38 

THE  ICONOCLAST 39 

THE  SHADOWED  ROAD 40 

fi  AUTUMN .40 

THE  BLIND  LESION 41 

THE  TAMER  OF  STEEDS 41 

His  ALLY 42 

MISTRESS  FATE 42 

\  THE  SONG  OF  HER 43 

THE  WRESTLERS 44 

THE  GUESTS  OF  PHINEUS 44 

SINCERITIES 45 

THE  WATER-SPRINGS 45 

SONG  OF  THE  SATYRS  TO  ARIADNE 46 

PUCK'S  SWEETHEART 48 

-  LOVE  IN  ABMOR 49 

AN  EMISSARY  TO  HEAVEN 50 

MORGIANA  DANCES 51 

THE  RUNNERS 53 

EMPIRE 53 

-THE   LOVER'S    VIGIL  54 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

To  CHILDREN 55 

1.  FAIRY    SONG 55 

2.  BRAGGARTS 56 

3.  THE  GOLDEN  DAY 56 

4.  THE  FAIRY  REALM 57 

5.  DAME    HOLIDAY 58 

6.  BIRDS  OF  THE  AIE 59 

"I    REMEMBER   MY   MOTHER" ,59 

PERSONALITY 60 

THE    WARDROBE   OF   REMEMBRANCE 61 

MARTYRS  TO  THE  MAN 62 

THE  PARLOUS  THINS 63 

PATERNITY .     •     •    .• 64 

REMARKS  TO  THE  BACK  OF  A  PEW '  .     .     .     ...     .     •     •  65 

RITUAL 66 

MALIGNED  MORTALITY 67 

**THE  TRIUMPH  OF  LOVE 68 

"ALWAYS  I  KNOW  You  ANEW" 69 

PANORAMA 701 

THE  FLAME  BRIDE 71 

UMBRAE  PUELLULARUM 72 

NIGHT  WATCHERS 73 

THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  FALSE  PROPHET 73 

THE  WINNING  OF  POMONA 74 

THE  LOOSED  DRYAD 78 

THWARTED  UTTERANCE 79 

EMERGENCY 80 

-  SCAMPS  OF  ROMANCE 81 

AFTER-SIGHT 82 

-LILIA'S  TRESS 83 

THE  BRAWL .  .  85 

THE  HALCYON  BIRDS 86 

THE  ROUNDHOUSE 97 

THE  CENTAUR'S  FAREWELL 98 

THE  FLOWER  GIRL 100 

WHAT  SAID  THE  LITTLE  ADMIRAL? 101 

THE  HAPPY  FOOL 101 

A  PASSAGE  TO  ITALY 102 

THE  ANCIENTS 104 

A  COLD  TEMPERAMENT 106 

THE  VIOLIN'S  ENCHANTRESS 107 

PROFITABLE  THINGS HI 

A  SONG  OF  DAWN  AT  DUSK 112 


MERCHANTS  FROM 
CATHAY 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  THE  TREES 


First,  when  all  the  boughs,  still  heavy-laden,  swished  and  rattled 

In  the  smothered,  sighing  forest  where  the  sleet  and  snowfall  battled, 

Where  by  day  the  crow  croaked  only 

And  by  night  the  moon  blinked  wanly, 
Even  there  the  rumor  traveled  and  the  deep-bound  root-elves  tattled. 

"Change  evolving!"  so  they  said. 

"Riddles  solving!"     In  the  dead 
And  dungeoned  deeps  of  earth  we  are  questioning  ourselves. 

We  are  answering,  'Rebirth!' 
We  are  forming,  we  are  swarming,  we  are  climbing!"  said  the  elves. 

And  the  larch  unto  the  maple,  and  the  chestnut  to  the  beech 

In  their  beck'ning,  bowing  language  passed  the  secret  each  to  each, 

Passed  the  whispered,  thrilling  message 

Till  they  thrilled  again  with  presage 
Of  the  wizard  wonders  pending  and,  in  low,  unending  speech, 

"Bonds  are  breaking!"  said  the  trees. 

"Something  waking!     Lo,  a  breeze 
And  a  bird-chirp  of  last  year.   ...  Is  it  that  that  shall  befall, 

Or  mere  memory  we  hear? 
We  are  trembling,  we  are  wondering  and  waiting!"  said  they  all. 

And  old  Winter,  who  had  brooded  on  the  autumn  groves  denuded, 
And,  with  dotard  kindness  shining,  laid  his  cloak  for  their  attire, 
Felt  a  sudden  stir  of  fire 

Run  and  ripple  o'er  the  land, 

(Warming  life  or  kindling  fire?) 

Which  he  did  not  understand ; 

But  it  irked  the  age-chilled  sire 

In  a  way  he  could  not  stand. 
So  he  rose  from  long  reclining 

And  he  gathered  up  his  raiment — 
All  his  drifted  white  attire— 

And  he  stopped  not  for  repayment, 
But  he  fled  on  winds  loud  whining,  winging  Northward  in  his  ire. 

Could  it  be?    The  sun  came  singing  down  the  hills  with  breezy  weather; 

All  the  scents  of  April  bringing,  all  the  birds  of  April  winging, 
All  the  showers  of  April  flinging — shower  and  shine  and  soner  together! 

Could  it  be?     Could  it  be? 

How  they  babbled,  tree  to  tree, 
How  they  loosed  their  pent  garrulity  and  rustled,  tree  to  tree — 

In  what  lively  conversation,  in  what  wordy  jubilation 
Did  they  babble,  did  they  chatter,  did  they  gossip,  tree  to  tree! 
'We  must  dress  us,  we  must  dress  us !     We  are  most  unkempt  and  frowsy, 
For  we  cared  not  in  the  winter — in  the  winter  dull  and  drowsy! 

But  the  birds,  our  little  gallants, 

On  our  branches  twit  and  balance. 

We  must  blossom  forth  in  daintiness,  no  longer  drab  and  drowsy!' 
And  daintily,  oh  daintily,  from  morning-time  to  twilight, 

[11] 


THE    AWAKENING    OF    THE    TREES 

They  prinked  them  in  the  sunlight,  they  blossomed  in  that  shy  light 
With  blossoms  white  and  virginal,  with  blossoms  pink  and  saucy, 
With  leafy  fillets  garlanded  and  streamers  green  and  mossy. 
With  violets  for  their  slipper-bows  and  sunlight  for  adorning 
They  blossomed  forth,  each  one  of  them,  to  greet  the  April  morning ! 

And  the  little  sap-elves  chuckled, 

'Mid  the  bloom  swayed  to  and  fro, 

"  Tis  a  most  ecstatic  morning,  but  we  knew  it  long  ago — 
We  knew  it  all — we  knew  it  all  amany  months  ago!" 


FALSORUM  DEORUM  CULTOR 


Give  me  my  mystery,  nor  let  me  be 

Set  in  a  world  of  rote  and  rule  o'  thumb. 

My  little  eyes  see  all  there  is  to  see? 

My  scrap  of  brain  know  all  there  is  to  know? 

My  mumming  lips  are — dumb 
Before  the  presences  that  form  and  flow 

Through  each  day's  mystery! 

Then  Fable,  they  malign  you?     'Tis  a  day 
Assured  of  this,  that  nothing  is  assured. 
Come  to  me,  Fable !     Foot  your  satyr  way ! 
Since  all's  so  plain  there's  nothing  plain  to  me, 

Rather  I  would  be  cured 
By  purest  essences  of  phantasy 

As  in  the  world's  mad  May! 

Right  bard,  who  spoke  for  "Triton's  wreathed  horn" ! 
And  this  I  speak  for:  Glaucus  and  his  train, 
Finned  shapes  and  scaly,  on  this  sea-blue  morn 
Seek  with  their  soft  ^Eolic  prophecies 

Lost  islands  of  the  main. 
I  follow  Leucothea  overseas 

For  the  old  myth  reborn! 

Oh  rough-horned  river  gods,  blue-mantled  round, 
Rise  from  your  streams  to-day  that  flow  as  flowed 
Thrice-haunted  streams  'neath  Myrtion!     At  the  sound, 
Sweet  Superstition,  wake  a  little  while — 

As  when  the  full  spits  lowed 
Through  awe-struck  silence  on  Apollo's  isle 
And  the  Thrinakrian  hides  crept  o'er  the  ground ! 


[12] 


THE  BIRD  FANCIER 

Overhead  a  bleak  and  sinful  sky 

Muttered  with  thunder;  and  thick  and  rolling 
In  from  the  bay  the  fog  came  billowing, 
Blurring  out  outlines,  yellowing 

Pave  and  front,  to  deep  vague  bells  tolling; 
And  still  that  shop  drew  the  Stranger's  eye ! 

Each  sagging  house,  a  crouched  suspect,  eyes  him ; 
But  the  window  he  peers  at,  like  a  spectrum 
Flashed  full  on  one,  or  a  sudden  plectrum 

Plucked  across  strong  chords — how  its  panes  enveigle! 
Its  smeared,  bleared  panes!     Each  dares — defies  him; 
For,  within?     'Tis  alive,  to  enchant  and  surprise  him 
With  cockatoo,  oriole,  owl  and  eagle ! 

And  more  marvelous  birds,  all  in  gorgeous  feather, 
Snap  eyes,  stretch  necks,  ruffle  wings  and  preen  them 
Giddy  before  him,  on  swings,  in  cages. 
Days  of  the  Sultans !    Days  of  the  Mages ! 
Who  before  in  such  array  has  seen  them, 

Or  where  before?    How  they  ruffle  and  lurch 

And  swing  and  cock  on  each  swaying  perch 

And  peck  and  yawn  golden  beaks  and  stare, 

Like  viziers,  like  rajahs  imprisoned  there 

Of  their  haughty  lineage  well  aware ! 

He  chills  to  the  fog.     He  stamps  and  shuffles. 

The  sound  strikes  through,  and  each  proud  bird  ruffles — 

Startled,  inquiring,  perchance  conspiring — 

Each  inky  bead  of  an  eye  upon  him, 

Ready  to  flock  to,  attack  or  shun  him. 
He  stamps  again.     At  their  backs  a  curtain 

Of  crimson  moves.     Does  a  gray  face  show 

In  just  a  glance  of  disturbance  so? 
A  wizened  face?    Well — he  is  not  certain! 

Beyond  all  cause  perturbed  he  stepped  away. 
Straight  a  last  glimmer  from  the  smothered  day 

Badged  in  raw  gold  that  nameplate  on  the  door. 

Nearer  he  craned,  forward  he  stepped,  and  more; 
And  knocked,  even  while  his  pulses  said  him  nay. 

A  thing  to  remark  at  least,  as  that  door  swung  slowly, 

Silently  inward.    On  such  a  view  it  gave ! 

Out  of  the  street  as  out  of  a  mouldering  grave — 
Into  a  chamber  enchanted,  bedizened  wholly 

With  birds,  birds,  birds !    From  the  ceiling  they  sang  and  swung. 

Cages  on  cages,  a  clutter  of  cages  hung 
So  crowded  upon  the  walls  they  seemed  wrought  of  wings, 

Shimmering  color,  gilt  wires,  and  crests  and  breasts 
Of  sleek  iridescence — close-woofed  of  all  fluttering  things. 


[13] 


THE    BIRD    FANCIER 

And  his  host  before  him ;  a  vivid  body 

(Striped  waistcoat,  blue  tail-coat,  black  skullcap!) 
Surely  spirited  forth  from  some  antique  cuddy 

Of  Time's  lumbered  store-room;  a  quaint,  brisk  chap, 
His  tight  black  breeches  bursting  their  stitches : 

"Eh?    Pray  you  be  seated !     I  heard  your  rap. 
Just  in  time  for  a  ra-are  bird,  sir,  you  are; 
A  grass-green  Surinam  jacamar!" 

Carmine,  maroon,  turquoise,  orange,  yellow : 
Such  variegation  as  rustled  around  him 
Ached  on  his  eyes,  came  to  quite  confound  him ! 

He  reeled  to  a  chair.    Curse  that  bent  old  fellow 
With  eyes  so  brilliant  and  strange  he  thought  them 
Topaz !     A  Mogul  might  have  brought  them 

In  his  high-swung  howdah  from  some  Orient  court; 

Gouged  them  into  that  yellow  old  skull  for  sport ! 

And  this  cheeping,  chattering,  chirping,  flustering 

Of  birds — here,  there,  all  about  him  clustering!     .     .     . 

Then  sudden  some  far  throat  swelled  and  sent 

One  golden  carol  forth,  jubilant, 

Swelling,  welling, — gay,  gay,  gay. 

Lackaday ! 

Full-orbed,  it  found  him, — 
Spun  and  wove  till  its  sweet  toils  bound  him ! 

Over  a  cage  of  brassy  wires 

The  Fancier  bent  in  a  mothering  way     .     .     . 
The  Stranger  stared  in  a  golden  daze. 
Pulsed  through  that  song's  spun  gauze  a  haze 
Of  faint,  far  strumming,  of  phantom  lyres 
From  the  dream-thralled  courts  of  lost  empires 
Zoning,  zoning, 
In  rumorous  moaning, 
His  heart  with  strains  of  an  ancient  day. 

"Song  in  sunset  valleys! 
Song  in  Cockagne! 

We  know 

In  Yvetot 
Now  no  such  songs  reign. 

"Our  arbors  in  Yvetot, 

Sere  they  are  and  brown, 
Yet  once  what  carols,  carols, 
Carols,  carols,  carols, 
Carols,  carols,  carols 
Sang  the  sun  down!" 

"So  linnet  sings  and  starling — 
But  phoenix — pheasant — we, 
Peacocks  and  lyre-birds 
From  far  over  sea ! 
Guinea-  and  Malaccan-born, 
Javan-plumed  and  dyed ! 
Oh  the  jungles,  the  jungles, 
The  tropic-fruited  jungles, 
The  heavy-bo wered  jungles 
Where  we  sing  at  eventide!" 


[14] 


THE    BIRD    FANCIER 


"Now  here's  a  flamingo"  (he  heard  the  Fancier) 

"From  Mesopotamia,  complected  clever!" 
A  scarlet  neck  coiled  around  in  answer; 

Two  humorous  bird  eyes  made  him  shiver. 

They  winked  at  him  with  no  fear  whatever, 
And  the  wide  bill  split  in  an  eerie — smile?     .     .     . 

A  cold  hand  closed  on  the  Stranger's  liver. 
He  shook  to  a  sense  of  impending  guile ! 

Why,  the  shop  was— queer;  but — bosh!     He  was  drowsy! 

With  a  cough  he  straightened  and  stared  at  the  ceiling. 
A  canary — chuckled?    A  bullfinch  frowsy, 

Like  a  coy  girl  over  her  muff,  (revealing 

What?)  looked  away.    The  room  had  changed  feeling! 
Something  lurked  and  entrenched  itself — here — yon — there; 

In  each  cage,  on  each  perch,  sensed  double-dealing; 
A  poise  of  mystery  in  the  air ! 

And  here  once  more  the  Fancier  hobbled 

With  a  green-glossed,  goggling,  glaring  treasure. 
It  shook  its  crest,  it  strutted,  gobbled, 

Eyed  the  Stranger — aye,  seemed  to  take  his  measure! 
And — he  felt  a  sudden  and  frightful  seizure, 

For  out  of  the  tail  of  his  eye  he  saw 
At  the  back  of  the  shop  emerge  with  leisure 

Sudden-f rom-nowhere — a  bird  of  Awe ! 

From  the  jacamar  shuttled  his  gaze,  rose  owl-like 

To  this  further  wonder,  as  nearer  came 
The  cassowary,  approaching  fowl-like. 

But  fowl-like  he  thought  it  only  in  name ! 
He  felt  his  pulses  shorten  and  thicken, 
He  felt  his  loud  heart-beats  press  and  quicken, 
As  it  stalked  him,  like  some  colossal  chicken — 

A  tufted  chicken — yet  not  the  same ! 

Then  a  screech-owl  screeched  from  some  cock-loft  hidden, 
A  macaw  flapped  down  at  his  ear  to  tweak, 

And  a  gold-breasted  trumpeter  squawked  unbidden 
His  battle-call  through  a  gaping  beak! 

An  ostrich  loomed  forth  in  his  scaly  gaiters, 

Three  jackdaws  grinned  from  the  wall  like  satyrs. 

The  Stranger's  gaze  flamed  with  suns  and  craters, 
And  a  spoonbill's  spatula  chilled  his  cheek ! 

Then  his  eyesight  cleared,  and  his  host  (as  josses 

Might  smile  on  their  slaves)  rubbed  his  hands  with  glee: 

"For  I  wished  to  remark  that  albatrosses 
Go  fast  this  season.     We've  left  but  three — 

"Not  so  fast!     Not  so  fast!"  cried  the  paling  Stranger 

As  he  leapt  to  his  feet  all  alive  to  danger. 

But  the  Fancier  leered  like  a  money-changer 

And  gripped  him.    "You'll  buy  one  and  you'll  pay  me/" 

His  topaz  eyes  glared.     Did  he  fluff  bedizened? 

His  long  nose  sharpened.     He  cocked  his  head. 
Like  awls  those  eyes  bored  their  prey  imprisoned, 

To  sunbursts  they  grew  as  the  moment  sped, 


[15] 


THE    BIRD    FANCIER 


Till  doubt  no  longer  the  fact  dissembled : 
On  the  Fancier's  arms  the  feathers  assembled! 
The  Stranger  trembled  and  looked  and  trembled 
His  fight  to  the  door  took  a  year  of  dread. 


The  sky  hung  grayer.     Bleak  rain  was  falling. 

Fog  eddied  on  through  that  shale-gray  mews. 
Weak  stumbled  the  Stranger  from  thought  appalling. 

The  cobbles  stuttered  beneath  his  shoes. 
Down  backstreets  squalid  and  dark  and  narrow 
His  eyes  swam  color,  he  shook  to  the  marrow! 
He  shied  and  ran  from  a  hopping  sparrow 

Through  a  feathery  storm  of  unholy  hues ! 


LIGHTNING 


Ere  we  be  stricken  blind  to  certain  dreams, 

Thank  God  there  is  a  wild  particular  light 

Flashes  upon  us  from  the  relenting  height 

Of  honest  heaven !    At  such  an  hour,  it  seems, 

We  gazed  on  patterned  fields  and  shrunken  streams 

From  our  warm  mountain,  with  the  infinite 

Royal  about  us,  as  the  fabled,  bright 

Gods  of  Olympus  scanned  their  Attic  demes. 

And  then — cloud-shadows  chilled  us,  and  the  sun 
Was  gone.    Yet  at  the  moment  of  my  pain 
A  vivid  sheet  of  lightning  showed  you  clear 
Against  the  eclipse.    Lost?    Aye,  but  rapt  from  one 
Who  laughed  for  immortal  rapture  of  you,  dear, 
Through  following  thunder  and  the  driving  rain ! 


[16] 


THE  HERITAGE  FOREGONE 


As  a  child's  small  height  doth  see 
Towering  presence  in  the  tree 
That  a  man's  earth-dragging  eyes 
To  no  symbol  may  surprise, 
Nature  that  radiant  word  of  hers 
Vouchsafes  but  to  her  worshippers. 

They  have  become  as  little  children.     They 

Have  put  away 

The  toils  of  life-defeaturing  towns; 
Perchance  in  one  wild  moment  sought  the  downs, 
The  mountains,  or  the  sea's  assuaging  rage 
In  sudden  instinct  for  their  heritage. 

For  it  is  instinct!     As  the  wounded  creature 
Tracks  down  the  root  or  herb  that  medicines, 

So  turns  the  wounded  spirit  unto  Nature, 

Draws  doubtful,  then  reviving  breath,  and  wins, 

In  that  first  instant,  certainty  and  presence, 

From  sea  and  sky  the  pure,  unanalyzed  essence 
Of  infinite  calm, 
And  healing  balm 

From  a  vast  area  of  grateful  hues, 

Till  the  soul  bursts  its  bonds,  and  flutters  loose, 

An  unjessed  falcon,  for  the  higher  tides 

Of  space,  where  peace,  with  vision,  wing  to  wing  abides. 

Then  do  the  strident  streets  of  Man's  devising 
Fade,  with  their  pestilent  vapors,  from  the  mind. 

The  winds  of  heaven,  from  heavenly  coverts  rising, 
Cry  of  the  golden  quarry  their  flight  shall  find. 

The  immemorial  sunset's  bright  unveiling 
Blazons  on  burning  clouds  the  benefice 
Of  ancient  faith,  of  splendid  dream,  that  is 
To  To-day's  clashing  creeds 
Brave  as  the  sun,  pure  as  the  moon,  who  leads 

Her  vestal  stars  with  silvery  vestures  trailing. 

Alone  you  shall  hold  converse,  you  shall  be 
Not  for  one  instant  without  intelligence 
Of  grace  and  the  dominion  of  a  God. 
What  are  the  morning  birds 
But  constant  words? 

Speech  tremors  through  the  trees  and  thrills  the  sod. 
Dumb  and  supine,  the  very  fields  adjure 
That  here  is  purging,  here  the  final  cure. 

The  flowers  have  glorious  secrets  in  their  eyes. 

Here  walls  immure  us  not.  We  knead  the  world 
Between  our  palms,  and  look  beyond  our  fate 
With  courage  grown  great, 

With  newly  anointed  sight  and  judgment  wise. 


[17] 


THE    HERITAGE    FOREGONE 


In  leaves'  altercation, 
In  birds'  jubilation, 

In  the  pursuit  of  fluctuous  streams  that  run 
From  shadow  into  sun, 
The  voice  that  murmured  undecipherate  things, 

And  yet  of  what  a  splendid  rumor, 
To  our  child  ears,  now  looses  luctual  springs 

Of  hope,  now  stays  us  in  a  steadfast  humor 
Of  happiness.     We  are  in  family 

With  all  our  speechless  mates;  find  Wind  a  fabler 
Of  romance  all  more  wondrous,  being  true. 

The  slightest  breeze  is  abler 
Unrealized  adjacencies  to  endue 
With  brave  complexions.     From  the  cloud  we  catch 
Olympian  raiment.     Each  swirled  leaf  of  chance 
Trails  its  Atlantean  significance. 
Mornings  and  evenings  match 
In  dressing  heaven  in  fairer,  sweeter  guises ; 
And,  as  the  unturned,  ponderous  rock  hides  its  minute  surprises, 

We  pry  the  hills  up  for  their  secrets,  find 
A  scurrying  population  of  new  divinings; 
And,  in  the  brook's  equivocate  twists  and  twinings, 

Startle  a  law — like  prophecy  from  Man's  laborious  mind. 

And  some,  in  whom  their  fathers'  daring  blood 
Runs  like  a  tide  at  flood, 
Shall  choose  the  sea, 
One  of  her  elemental  host  to  be, 
To  know  her  swoons  of  pleasance  and  her  dolors, 
Her  calms,  her  storms,  and  all  her  changing  colors, 
Her  griefs,  that  fling  wraith-arms  to  the  fitful  stars, 
The  black,  wet  nights,  all  clamorous  with  her  wars, 
Her  love-luxuriance  and  the  sweep  of  her  might, 
All  stress  and  all  delight. 

And  some  shall  isle  them  on  some  mountain-top 
Whence  all  the  world  doth  drop 
Below  into  strange-traced  maps  of  little  likelihood, 
Like  the  designs  worms  gnaw  in  rotting  wood; 
And  all  between  and  all  below,  cloud  masses 
Are  at  great  wrestlings,  and  the  deep  crevasses 
Resound  with  winds  as  do  the  coves  with  waves. 

They  too  will  be  silent  as  the  men  of  the  sea, 

Content  to  be, 
Not  querulous,  not  garrulous,  like  life's  slaves. 

For  both  the  tremendous  suctions  of  Eternity 
Silence  the  grief  that  whines— the  greed  that  raves. 

And  some  shall  choose  the  forest.     Its  ephors, 
The  trees,  will  usher  them  through  giant  doors, 

Cathedral  vistas;  and  from  the  glare  of  day 
To  high  noon  of  solemnity,  their  tread 
Shall  pass  across  the  plant-world's  earliest  dead 
That  waxed  in  primal  ooze,  and  feed  this  hour, 

^Eon  'neath  aeon.    They  shall  go  their  way 
Through  venerable  aisles 

Blue  with  the  first  morn's  stillness  for  miles  on  unglimpsed  miles, 
Still  with  that  utter  calm  succeeds  a  shock  of  power. 


[18] 


THE    HERITAGE    FOREGONE 

And  some  shall  find  their  tillage  lowland  tracts  among, 
Complete  of  shine  and  song, 
And  live  a  day-dream,  bound  by  intimate  ties 
To  quietudes  more  stalwart  hearts  despise, 
Minstreled  by  sweet  concords  of  bird  and  breeze  and  flower 
Hour  by  golden  hour. 

So,  when  one  morning  at  our  toil  we  say, 

"He  has  been  long  away. 

He  comes  from  his  high  haunt  to  mix  with  us  to-day, 

To  walk  again 

The  busy,  tyrannizing  streets  of  men." 
We  shall  indeed  clasp  hand 
With  an  inaliened  stranger  to  our  land, 
And  little  understand 

The  large  and  simple  things  about  him.     Nay, 
His  heart  shall  hold  a  secret  we  can  never  know. 
Only,  when  once  again  he  turns  to  go, 
And  we  to  life's  so  brief  and  baffled  span, 
A  sudden  light  our  dullard  eyes  may  fan. 
We  may  look  back  to  where  he  smiled  and  trod, 
And — inasmuch  as  he  has  grown  a  god — 
Cry,  "He  is  changed  indeed.    Why,  he  has  grown  a  man !" 


CHARMS 


I  hold  to  a  cup  my  mother  gave  me 

Of  tears,  bright  tears,  glad  tears  to  save  me, 

Shed  at  my  birth  and  ofttimes  after — 

Tears  of  pain  and  tears  of  laughter. 

I  lift  against  the  shadowing  years 

The  brilliance  of  her  cup  of  tears. 

And  round  my  neck  I  wear  forever 

A  chain  no  mortal  hand  may  sever. 

The  links  are  pride,  with  honor's  clasping, 

That  mocks  each  tempter's  evil  grasping, 

Against  all  fear  enheartening  me, 

My  father's  bright  integrity. 

Last  is  this  scroll  my  true-love  proffered 
When  all  the  love  her  deep  heart  offered 
Was  sealed  therein,  its  seal  commanding- 
All  truth,  all  trust,  all  understanding. 
Bound  fast  forever  on  my  brows 
Is  this  phylactery  of  our  vows! 


[19] 


THE  LOST  GODS  ABIDING 


The  old  gods,  the  bright  and  glorious  gods  of  a  world  at  dawn, 

Flushed  with  laughter  and  love,  in  marble  symmetry  throned  on  strength  and 

pride, 

Beneath  the  spell  of  the  Lord  of  beautiful  Life  they  still  abide. 
They  are  not  gone. 

They  bowed  their  heads  on  their  breasts,  and  became  the  hills, 

Learning  that  sit  at  the  knees  of  those  marvelous  mentors  the  skies. 
Now  they  have  learned.     They  are  wise. 

To  nobler  tasks  they  have  set  their  stubborn  wills. 

Old  gods,  by  eternal  enchantment  not  passed 
But  imprisoned,  that  the  ancient  beauty  might  last, 

Once,  from  starry  heights  higher  than  Olympus,  a  Voice  stilled  your  wrangles 
and  storms. 

Silence  fell  on  your  forms 

In  the  height  of  the  power  of  your  riotous  reign,  that  ye  learn 
Of  loam,  grass-blade,  and  lichen  and  fern 
The  true  stature  of  godhood — the  charity,  silence,  and  peace. 

Do  they  cry  your  release, 
Idle  egoists,  cognizant  not  of  how  infinite  far 

Ye  are  more  than  ye  were? 

Ye  liege  lords  of  the  Being  whose  gentleness  raised  you  to  him, 
Afar  on  the  dim 

Sunset-cinctured  horizon  ye  sit,  with  new  carcenets  of  stars, 

Shaming  Man  from  his  dull,  daily  spoilings  and  wars, 
From  his  impotent  belying  desires,  as,  through  twilight's  hushed  dream, 

Drinking  deep  of  the  twilight  that  stills  and  absolves,  doth  he  come 

From  weary,  soul-rending,  grim  laboring  tiredly  home, 

To  your  kindly  tribunal  come  home! 

Philosophers  grown  so  grave,  understanding,  and  kind ; 

Inspired,  not  resigned; 
With  exception  alone  of  some  shaggy-wild,  boisterous,  and  bluff 

Young  Bacchus  in  rough, 
Who,  unharnessed  as  yet  of  restraint, 
Shakes  erupting  his  wrath  and  his  might 
On  the  flame-terrored  night, 
Subsiding  only  in  grumbling  ire 

And  gurgling  fire 

At  the  gentle  protest  of  the  wise  moon,  his  saint, — 
How  your  bosoms  have  suckled  strong  wills ! 
How  true  heroes  have  sprung  from  you,  hills! 
And  from  far  at  the  last,  from  what  far  wastes  of  forest  or  foam 

Ye  have  drawn  them  home, 
That  once,  if  for  only  once  more 

They  might  shout  on  your  summits  and  stride  with  your  clouds  for  a  floor, 
Reel  back  at  the  thunder  and  grapple  in  fierce  love  and  wild 
Your  strength  to  their  breasts,  as  a  Titan  were  grasped  by  its  child, 
Yea,  for  only  once  more 

That  their  hearts  might  be  fired  by  your  sunsets,  that  in  shame  they  might 
kneel  and  adore, 

[20] 


THE    LOST    GODS    ABIDING 

That  the  gyves  of  the  world  might  fall  from  them  and  dominant,  free, 
They  might  stride  with  your  lightnings  and  chant  with   your  thunders  and 
plunge  through  your  snows  as  a  sea ! 

Oh  majestic  gods  immured, 

That  ask  not  nor  speak,  but  are  still 

And  in  silence  fulfill 

All  the  ministries  taught  you  by  God; 

Are  filled  with  his  vastness,  fulfilling  in  it  the  soul-dream  of  each  single 

earth-sod, 

The  hour  of  the  flower  and  the  life  of  the  grass  and  the  growth  of  the  gourd ; 
One  day  they  shall  come,  oh  ye  mountains; 
One  day  your  rich  guerdon  falls  due! 

They  shall  flee  unto  you, 

Man,  woman  and  child,  from  their  self -decreed  doom, 
From  self-woven  destructiveness,  crying  on  Science  no  more, 
With  their  reeling  minds  stilled  as  a  tomb, 
To  your  door — to  your  door. 

To  be  purged,  to  be  bosomed,  to  bathe  in  your  high  air's  peace-fountain. 
Was  not  Sinai  a  mountain? 

They  shall  come  bearing  weaknesses,  ailments,  and  griefs  and  unrests 
To  be  clasped  to  your  breasts, — 
And  the  Lord,  from  his  watch-tower  above, 

Cry  "The  old  gods  no  more!     Not  a  dream  of  them  left  for  grief-trove! 
But  behold,  oh  behold,  in  their  majesty,  power  and  peace, 
The  new  gods,  the  great,  strong,  merciful  gods  of  release — 

True  gods  of  my  mercy  and  love!" 

The  old  gods,  the  bright  and  beautiful  gods  of  the  ages  fled, 

Flushed  with  laughter  and  love,  through  godlike  agony  doivcred  with  pride 

and  pain, 
In  the  far-throned  mountains  and  hills   of  our  world   their  glories  forever 

remain. 
They  are  not  dead! 


[21] 


THE  ANVIL  OF  SOULS 

High  o'er  the  frowning  forest,  from  the  red  door  of  the  smithy 

Loomed  forth  the  stern  artificer  of  all  the  years  to  be. 
Now  on  the  steeps  of  vision,  what  wanderer  thou,  I  prithee?" 
"I  climb  from  Man  to  find  the  plan!"     "Then  learn  of  me!"' 

His  sledge  is  oak  and  mountain-crag.    Its  weight  is  thunder. 

The  souls  are  on  his  anvil  laid  as  sword-blades  bright. 
His  sledge's  swing  is  lightning  and  cataclysmic  wonder, 

Its  impact  on  the  leaping  soul  both  Morn  and  Night ! 

And  this  is  the  song  that  he  hath  for  mighty  singing, 

"The  blade  that  writhes  beneath  the  sledge,  white-hot—cold-blue! 

The  anvil — the  anvil — the  anvil's  giant  ringing; 
And,  hissing  from  its  bath  of  stars,  the  soul  steeled  true!" 

The  smithy's  walls  are  lightened  as  by  a  forest  fire, 

And  first  the  smith  was  imaged  wrath,  and  then  vast  peace ! 

His  lineaments  are  joy  and  peace.     His  thews  can  never  tire 
The  starry  bath  beside  his  hand  is  called  Release. 

The  souls  are  hot  with  flashing  sparks.    The  souls  have  voices ; 

But  drowned  in  the  reverberance  of  that  huge  din. 
And  in  his  strength  the  smith  is  glad,  and  in  his  calm  rejoices, 

And  flings  the  trued  steel  to  Release,  to  hiss  therein. 

His  face  glows  joy.     His  face  is  ever  lightened 
Not  cruelly,  but  radiant  with  the  justice  of  his  trade ; 

For  lo,  the  dullest  metal  to  beauty  brightened, 

The  bent  and  dinted,  flawed  and  scarred,  like  blue  steel  made ! 

"For  Man  I  toil — for  men  have  no  regretting. 

So  toil  I,  joying  to  be  just  to  each  for  all. 
As  due  them  all,  I  true  them  all,  no  flaw  forgetting; 

And  in  a  like  perfection  they  hang  upon  my  wall. 

"For  Man  is  mine,  but  men  are  not  my  doing. 

So  some  shall  writhe  through  furnaced  pain  to  dazzle  whole. 
Not  smith  of  dispensation  I,  but  smith  of  trueing. 

Hark!     From  the  well-brink  of  Release  chants  soul  on  soul!" 

"And  what  is  called  your  anvil?     You  name  names  madly!" 
"The  state  men  flee  and  cling  and  flee — and  would  retest! 

For  all  the  glory  of  mine  anvil,  Heaven  sings  sadly. 
The  soul  of  all  perfection  knows  mine  anvil  best!" 


I  keep  within  my  heart  this  song  of  his  for  singing : 

"The  steel  that  writhes  beneath  the  sledge,  white-hot — cold-blue! 

The  anvil — the  anvil — the  anvil's  mighty  ringing — 

And,  hissing  from  its  bath  of  stars,  the  soul  steeled  true !" 


[22] 


THE  ARGO'S  CHANTY 


Orpheus  hath  harped  her, 

Her  prow  hath  drunk  the  sea. 
Fifty  haughty  heroes  at  her  golden  rowlocks  be ! 
His  fingers  sweep  the  singing  strings, 
Her  forefoot  white  before  she  flings, 
Out  from  the  shore  she  strains — she  swings — 

And  lifts,  oh,  gallantly! 

Orpheus  shall  harp  for  her, 
The  Talking  Head  speak  wise  for  her, 

Lynceus  gaze  sharp  for  her 
And  Tiphys  search  the  skies  for  her! 

May  Colchis  curse  the  dawn  o'  day  when  first  she  thundered  free 
And  our  golden  captain,  Jason,  in  glory  put  to  sea! 

Lovely  Atalanta 

The  buskined  huntress  maid; 

The  lad  who  stretched  Procrustes  on  the  racking  bed  he  laid ; 
And  Hercules,  whose  infant  thew 
The  hissing  snakes  of  Hera  slew; 
And  Nestor,  strong  to  dare  and  do, 

Bring  home  each  dripping  blade ! 

Castor,  aye,  and  Pollux 

Who  boxed  Bebrycia's  king, — 

Warriors,  seers  and  mages  at  the  rowlocks  reach  and  swing; 
But,  heirs  to  winds  uproarious, 
The  Twain,  sons  of  Boreas, 
With  furled  wings  white  and  glorious, 

Most  magic  are  to  sing! 

Lemnos  lies  behind  us 

And  ladies  of  good  grace. 

Home,  bring  home  the  oars  again  and  lift  the  coasts  o'  Thrace ! 
Nor  yet  the  Clashing  Islands  find, 
Nor  stark  Promethean  highlands  find, 
But  here,  of  far  or  nigh  lands,  find 

Adventure's  very  place — 

Adventure's  splendid,  terrible  and  dear  and  dafting  face! 

Then,  Orpheus,  strike  harp  for  us! 

Oh,  Talking  Head,  speak  true  for  us! 

Lynceus,  look  you  sharp  for  us! 

And,  Tiphys,  steer  her  through  for  us! 

May  Colchis  curse  the  dawn  o'  day  when  first  she  thundered  free 
And  our  golden  captain,  Jason,  in  glory  put  to  sea! 


[23] 


THE  BOAST  OF  THE  TIDES 


Brief  is  the  power  ye  assume, 
Motes  on  a  mote  world  aswing! 

Heaving  through  darkness  and  spume, 

Deeply  intoning  your  doom, 
Hark  what  we  sing! 

Sweeping  all  ages  we  spread, 

Tolling  our  dirge  through  the  years, 
Morning  to  nightfall  our  tread 
Sounds  o'er  the  graves  of  your  dead, 

Sure  as  your  tears. 

Haled  by  the  moon  from  afar, 

Whelm  we  the  homes  where  ye  hide; 
Lords  where  the  green  fathoms  are, 
Lords  of  the  reef  and  the  bar — 
Lords  the  world  wide. 

Swelling  to  thunderous  surge, 
Dandle  we  lightly  your  ships; 

Crooning  monotonous  dirge, 

Weltering  deeply  to  purge 
Man  from  our  lips. 

Yet,  fettered  fast  to  our  law, 
Blindly  we  chafe  on  a  chain, 
Surge  'neath  a  scourge,  and  withdraw, 
Shamed,  when  the  orb  of  white  awe 
Gyves  us  again. 

Ever  and  ever — but,  hark! 

O'er  the  far  rim  of  the  sea, 
When  the  last  storm-stricken  bark 
Foams  to  its  fate  down  the  dark, 

We  shall  be  free! 

Sun-high  in  mutinous  grace, 

Then  shall  our  wild  crests  be  curled, 
And  the  vast  roar  of  our  race 
Boom,  hissing  greenly,  through  space, 

Wide  of  the  world. 

The  wreck  of  the  moon  for  our  might! 

Far  shall  we  thunder  and  fall, 
Pouring  in  splendors  of  light 
Down  the  steep  gulfs  of  the  night — 

Lords  over  all! 


[24] 


THE  YOUNG  BROTHER 


The  tonsures  halted.    They  knelt  to  pray 
To  the  rain-stained  Virgin  beside  the  way. 
Humbly  each  monk's  bald  head  bent  down. 
Each  fumbled  his  beads  in  his  rusty  gown, 
A  partridge  covey  in  sober  brown ! 

Young  Patrick  looked  through  his  fingers  spread 
And  glimpsed  at  the  blue  sky  overhead. 
He  spied  at  the  corn-shocks'  yellow  wealth, 
And  the  keen  day  cried  to  his  bounding  health. 
And  then  if  he  prayed — he  prayed  by  stealth. 

"Lord  Christ,  and  Peter  who  keeps  the  keys, 
Save  now  my  soul  from  holy  disease! 
Curb  the  lusts  of  my  flesh,  but  keep 
My  full  pulse  throbbing,  awake  or  asleep, 
With  merry  wonder  that  will  not  weep ! 

"Keep  my  lungs  to  drink  deep  the  air, 

And  mine  eyes  to  delight  in  thes$  colors  rare, 

And  my  muscles  satin-smooth,  to  thrill 

To  a  buoyant  heart  on  a  windy  hill. 

And  my  prayers  like  sunset,  splendid  and  still ! 

"Lord  Christ,  who  strode  lithely  on  land  or  sea 
With  meekness  and  mettle  through  Galilee, 
Glad  for  the  rain  and  the  wind  and  the  sun, 
For  the  songs  of  birds  and  bright  day  begun, 
Sanction  the  prayer  of  Thy  youngest  one ! 

"The  birds  of  the  air  and  the  fish  of  the  sea 
And  the  winds  of  heaven  were  glad  of  Thee, 
And  Thou  wert  thewed  as  a  stalwart  friend, 
Enduring  strong  to  the  merciful  end. 
Lord,  bring  me  so  to  my  merciful  end ! 

"In  joy,  in  joy  of  the  open  way, 

Hearty  in  speech  and  the  prayers  I  pray, 

Open  of  countenance  day  and  night, 

Not  the  parchment  husk  of  an  anchorite, 

But  glad  in  this  country's  warmth  and  light!" 

The  tonsures  rose  and  the  old  monk!  passed, 

And  the  rapt  and  the  prayerful,  but  one  rose  last 

As  a  boy  in  beauty,  a  hart  in  chase, 

An  athlete  girded  to  run  a  race, 

With  the  sunlight  full  on  his  eager  face. 

Long  lagged  the  road  till  the  cloisters  rose 

Slumbering  white  in  their  peaceful  close. 

The  humble  of  heart  may  God  defend, 

But  the  boy  came  singing  with  Christ  for  friend! 

Christ,  bring  us  all  to  a  merciful  end! 


[25] 


BROADWAY 

The  bed  of  the  River  is  adamant  and  marl. 
Deep  and  wide  runs  the  River  under  cliffs  of  granite  {?ray 
Under  heights  of  ringing  steel,  with  its  woe  and  its  weal,  ' 
Twixt  high  beetling  steeps  the  dark  River  sweeps 
,-X™  lts  soundin£>  resounding  chaunt  of  joy  and  sorrow 
With  its  dirges  and  its  ditties  of  blessings  and  of  pities 
Its  medleyed  many  Yesterdays,  its  chaunt  of  one  To-morrow 
Its  song  of  To-morrow  and  To-day! 

It  courses  through  a  channel  that  Titans  must  have  hewn 

Its  banks  enormous  ramparts  dark  and  high,  high  and  drear 
Yet  sunlight  strikes  between  them,  and  the  boon  white  moon 

Spills  them  molten  silver  night  on  night  for  year  on  year. 
And  piercing  those  ramparts  are  hordes  on  hordes  of  eyes 
Glinting  or  dulling,  staring  bright  and  wise 
On  the  faces  of  that  River  raised  in  joy  and  sorrow, 
White  for  the  yesterdays,  bright  for  one  To-morrow, 
The  phantom  flood  of  faces  raised  to  laugh  or  pray 
From  the  River,  the  River  of  To-morrow  and  To-day, 
With  its  burthen  of  the  secrets  of  a  People's  joy  and  sorrow, 
Its  song  of  To-morrow  and  To-day ! 

Rains  fall  dark  on  that  River.    Snows  drift  white  on  that  River; 

And  sunlight  showers  gold  through  all  its  mists  and  glooms  forever; 

And  laughter  aye  shall  ring  from  it,  and  high  songs  sing  from  it 

Above  the  sobs  and  sighing,  above  the  cursing  crying 

Of  the  multitude  of  voices  that  flood  it  like  the  faces 

Upturned,  upturned  to  the  distant  smoke-dimmed  spaces 

Of  blue,  of  clouds  and  stars,  in  their  quiet  lost  forever 

To  the  swarming,  surging  multitude  that  make  that  mighty  River 

Of  To-morrow  and  To-day 

That  floods  upon  its  way 

'Twixt  its  ramparts  pierced  with  eyes,  gleaming  wise,  dulling  gray 

On  the  deep  dark  flood  of  that  straining,  surging  River 

With  its  song  of  To-morrow  and  To-day ! 

Fabrics  raised  above  that  River,  framed  and  girdered  iron  ways, 

Stream  with  roaring  traffic,  coursed  by  steeds  of  steel. 
Tubes  beneath  that  River,  tunnelled  to  amaze, 

Din  with  dartled  lightnings ;  and  clamors  clang  and  peal, — 

Booming  bells,  and  rippling  chimes,  and  shouts  of  hurried  trade, 

Wares  cried  along  that  River,  and  bitter  bargains  made! 
And  here  a  bower,  there  a  bloom-festooned  and  white  arcade, 
Stems  its  fringing  eddies  (Oh,  sickly  flowers  that  fade!), 
Draws  its  loitering  eddies  to  grottoes  hectic-gay 
As  mid-stream  the  turbid  River  still  roars  upon  its  way, 
Chaunting  still  its  joys  and  sorrows,  its  pasts  and  its  to-morrows, 
Its  song  of  To-morrow  and  To-day ! 

What  then  is  the  song  of  that  strange  and  sombre  River? — 
That  solemn,  sombre  River,  with  reaches  strangely  gay, 

With  its  sin-dark  stains,  and  its  undertone  forever 

Of  little  rippled  laughters,  like  sun-streaks  through  the  gray? 

A  song  so  old  that  its  import  fails  and  falters ! 
Life !— to  the  faces  on  its  flood  that  battle  by, 


[26] 


B  R  O  A  D  W  A  Y 


To  the  yearning  eyes  of  youth,  bowed  heads  in  grisly  halters, 
To  the  mother  clinging  white  to  her  little  household  altars, 
To  the  mirthless  smiles  of  lips  wrung  dry. 

"Our  life  is  this  River  of  Haste,"  the  murmur  thickens. 

"That  thrills  and  overpowers,  that  sickens  as  it  quickens, — 

Once  drawn  down  its  stream  to  be  one  to-day,  forever, 

With  the  glamour  and  the  dolor  and  the  wisdom  of  the  River, 

With  the  strange  increasing  changes  and  the  chances  of  the  River, 

With  the  stern  warrior  soul  and  the  wild  surpassing  laughter 

Of  this  torrent  of  the  multitude,  whose  like  comes  never  after; 

To  strive  and  sink  and  drown  with  a  People's  joy  and  sorrow 

For  the  medleyed,  tangled  Past,  for  the  groped-for  one  To-morrow; 

An  Age's  everlasting,  immortal,  fearful  River 

That  rolls  and  roars  forever, 

Forever  and  a  day, 
Till  the  soul  of  Man  be  risen  and  his  raiment  rent  away ! 


THE  YEARS  TO  BE 

I  cried  to  them  in  the  twilight,  in  the  shadowy  places. 

They  are  robed  in  a  blinding  light,  but  I  have  not  seen  their  faces. 

Their  music  is  loud  and  sweet 

To  the  beat  of  their  glancing  feet. 
They  are  light  through  a  prism  glancing,  in  the  dance  of  their  moods  and  graces. 

I  cried  to  them  from  the  summit  where  the  wind  was  laughter. 
I  saw  them  against  the  sunset,  ere  they  fled  to  the  days  hereafter. 

Their  music  is  sweet  and  long 

Like  a  thin-drawn  note  of  song. 
I  followed  them  with  my  soul,  but  my  feet  might  not  follow  after. 

I  cried  to  them  at  the  morn,  when  my  pulses  beat  to  a  tabor. 
I  cried  to  them  in  the  noon,  in  the  heat  and  sweat  of  my  labor. 

In  my  cheerless  night  I  cried 

With  my  dead  that  lay  beside, 
When  my  voice  was  the  hiss  of  a  sword,  and  my  grief  as  the  bite  of  a  s; 

But  they  will  not  stop  to  speak  nor  to  whisper  of  times  or  places. 
They  mock  before— still  before— when  the  eager  thought  out- races. 
And  ever  the  throb  of  cheers 


They  are 


Faint-blown  through  a  mist  of  tears! 

re  robed  now  in  light,  now  in  night— but  I  have  not  seen  their  faces ! 


[27] 


THE  MARVELOUS  MUNCHAUSEN 

The  snug  little  room  with  its  brazier  fire  aglow, 
And  Piet  and  Sachs  and  Vroom,  all  in  the  long  ago, — 
Oh,  the  very  long  ago !  o'er  their  pipes  and  Hollands  seen ; 
And  on  the  wall  the  man-o'-war,  and  firelight  on  the  screen ! 

Their  flowered,  bulging  waistcoats  that  wrinkle  when  they  chuckle; 
The  Baron  much-mustachio'd,  and  gay  with  star  and  buckle 
And  bristling  in  a  uniform  as  scarlet  as  his  cheeks, 
With  choker  lace  beneath  his  chin,  and  splendid,  yellow  breeks ! 

The  smoke  drifts  blue,  and  bluer  through  that  window,  all  abreeze, 
Are  glinting  sky  and  glistening  sea  beyond  the  Holland  quays. 
Blue  tiles,  red  bricks,  the  bustling  wharves  where  colors  oriflamme ; 
Starched  caps  and  rosy-posy  cheeks — the  girls  of  Amsterdam ! 

The  snug  little  room  with  its  brazier  fire  aglow! 

Oh,  listen,  will  he  tell  them  as  he  told  them  long  ago, — 

Oh,  very  long  ago,  alaughing  in  his  sleeve ! 

The  marvelous  Munchausen,  with  the  fables  7  believe? 

When  I  had  sown  the  Turkey-beans  that  reached  to  the  moon, 
And  lifted  all  Westminster  in  the  sling  from  my  balloon, 

(Swung  over  the  Atlantic, 

They  peered  from  windows — frantic!) 
When,  eagle-back,  I'd  scanned  the  Pole  in  broad,  eternal  noon, 

In  Queen  Mab's  chariot  I  ventured  on  the  sea. 

'Twas  like  a  mammoth  hazelnut,  with  matchless  orrery 

Asparkle  on  its  ceiling, 

With  planet- systems  wheeling 
And  giddy  comets  sizzling  all  about  the  head  o'  me ! 

The  nine  bulls  drew  it,  as  stout  as  those  of  Crete, 

And  all  were  shod  with  horrid  skulls  that  clattered  on  their  feet. 

Rich  banners  waved  behind  'em, 

While  on  their  heads,  to  mind  'em, 
Postilion  crickets  chirruped  them,  all  chirping  loud  and  sweet. 

Ghost  of  the  Cape  I  warn  you  of,  for  he  is  bottle-blue! 
We  split  his  Table  Mountain.    He  gibbered  and  he  flew. 

The  bulls  straight  showed  disfeature 

With  gazing  on  the  creature, 
Stampeding  in  their  harness  when  I  gave  the  view-halloo. 

Though  wrecked  on  Egypt's  obelisks,  disaster  I  defied, 

And  harnessed  Sphinx,  the  Emperor's  gift,  to  tow  an  ark  as  wide 

As  great  Westminster ; 

With  beau  and  belle  and  spinster 
And  cleric,  clerk,  and  coronet  all  tete-a-tete  inside. 

[28] 


THE    MARVELOUS    MUNCHAUSEN 


"Good  folk,  we  sail  for  Africa!"  said  I  to  all  my  train. 

When  bold  Munchausen  leads  you  forth,  what  laggard  dares  remain 

In  slippered  ease,  uncaring 

To  share  my  deeds  of  daring?" 
Their  cheers  amazed  my  modesty  and  more  had  made  me  vain ! 

"The  Sultan's  bees  I've  shepherded.    I've  hornpiped  at  Marseilles 
Where  gulped  me  down  (well-nigh  to  drown!)  the  liveliest  of  whales. 

I'm  riskiest  of  riskers, 

But,  blow  my  grizzled  whiskers," 
I  cried,  "May  jackals  gnaw  my  bones,  if  now  Munchausen  fails!" 

By  night  the  lions  roared  at  us.     By  day  the  simoons  came 
And  swept  across  our  caravan  in  sandy  clouds  of  flame; 

But  naught  dismayed  our  temper,  or 

The  genial  Afric  Emperor 
Had  missed  my  handsome  greeting,  to  his  long-abiding  shame. 

The  people  of  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon  I  wined  and  dined. 
I  reigned  at  Gristariska  when  His  Majesty  declined. 

Reforms  I  wrought  untiring, 

With  Gog  and  Magog  squiring, 
And  Frosticos,  my  bosom-friend,  who  lent  a  legal  mind. 

For  last  superb  achievement  (Bright  tears  may  Envy  shed!) 
I  built  a  bridge,  from  Africa  to  distant  England  spread. 

No  edifice  of  fable, 

Nay,  not  the  Tower  of  Babel, 
Surpassed  its  mammoth  glory  in  the  heavens  overhead ! 

So  back  across  its  noble  arch  my  retinue  and  I 

Advanced  with  blaring  trumpets  through  the  regions  of  the  sky. 

Clouds  lingered  to  enwreath  us, 

Earth's  kingdoms  far  beneath  us, 
And  martial  music  cheered  our  march  from  all  the  birds  that  fly. 

The  snug  little  room  with  its  brazier  fire  aglow, 
And  Piet  and  Sachs  and  Vroom  all  sleeping  long  ago, 
Oh  so  very  long  ago!     And,  chuckling  in  his  sleeve, 
Still,  o'er  the  slumbering  table, 
Drone-droning  on  his  fable, 
The  marvelous  Munchausen,  \vith  the  stories  7  believe ! 


[29] 


THE  DROWNED  HIDALGO  DREAMS 

"Bahama  and  the  Caribbees?     But  in  the  mains  of  sun 
Oh,  Cabot  never  won  a  realm  like  that  our  Cortez  won ! 

Velasquez  had  his  Cuba — Cordova,  Yucatan, 

But  Don  Grijalva  spied  for  us  the  conquest  we  began. 
From  Seville  and  from  Cadiz  beat  out  the  fleets  of  chance 
And  fade  through  golden  sunsets  to  climes  of  high  romance ; 
And,  like  a  cloud  of  fire,  on  phosphor  tropic  seas, 
All  day  abeam  the  wondrous  dream — all  night  its  valiantries! 

"We  raised  dusk  Indian  islands  where  painted  parrots  scream 
Our  chief  paced  Cuba's  beaches  to  frame  the  further  dream,  * 
Till  out  from  drowsed  Havana  our  brave  sails  drew  unfurled, 
Our  red  cross  'twixt  its  vivid  flames  daring  the  Western  world 
Past  Cozumel,  Tobasco,  and  past  Grijalva's  isle, 
Till  on  that  Holy  Thursday  we  saw  our  harbor  smile, 
And  natives  with  their  trinkets  speed  the  long,  light  pirogue 
From  where  the  muddy  island  streams  in  languor  disembogue. 

"The  royal  Castile  ensign  apeak  whipped  out  like  flame; 
And  soft-voiced  Indian  women  with  fruits  and  flowers  came. 
Oh  kindliest  Marina,  who  held  our  captain's  hand 
And  told  in  words  of  music  the  glory  of  that  land ! 
Still  do  I  dream  volcanoes  against  an  azure  sky, — 
Of  swarth  caciques  and  Aztecs  that  smiled  and  passed  us  by 
In  coats  of  priceless  feather-work,  like  birds  of  Paradise, — 
And,  reeking  to  the  hot,  hot  sun,  the  heathen  sacrifice. 

"Still  gorgeous  tropic  plumage  and  fruits  of  fair  design 

Down  streets  of  bright  Tezcuco  in  savage  brilliance  shine. 

Again  from  some  high  table-land  I  gasp  upon  the  view 

Of  golden-domed  Manoa  that  we  hidalgos  knew     .     . 

Again  I  hear  the  idols  crash  from  their  templed  state. 

The  streets  run  thirsty  murder  and  ring  with  screams  of  hate. 

Again  we  swarm  the  altar  rock  and  slay  like  raging  beasts. 

Again  I  hear  through  storms  of  spears  the  death-chant  of  the  priests! 

"Here  there  is  time  for  thinking,  where  timeless  tide-years  flow. 
And  through  my  brain  in  pageants  rolls  the  siege  of  Mexico. 
But  to  my  trance  of  dreaming  no  peace  my  dreaming  brings, 
For  still  the  past  shrieks  round  me  with  abominable  things. 
Heap  high  the  treasures  of  all  worlds,  ye  could  not  lure  again 
To  such  another  conquest  this  man  of  Cortez'  men ! 
Dead  men,  who  saw  the  altars  drip,  the  throbbing  heart  held  high. 
I  cry  'Abominations  !>    Then  charge  me  if  I  lie ! 

"Yet — Cuba  and  the  Caribbees !     Ah,  but  the  mains  of  sun 

Hold  no  transcending  city  like  that  our  Cortez  won ! 

Velasquez  to  his  vanity,  Cordova  to  his  greed, 

But  Don  Grijalva  spied  for  us  where  our  great  chief  might  lead. 

From  Seville  and  from  Cadiz  beat  out  the  fleets  of  chance 

And  fade  through  gorgeous  sunsets  to  climes  of  high  romance; 

And,  like  a  cloud  of  fire,  through  phosphor  tropic  seas, 

All  day  abeam  the  wondrous  dream — all  night  its  valiantries  I" 

[30] 


WHEN   GOD  WEARIED 


In  a  south  breeze  that  swept  the  hill 
One  night,  when  all  the  stars  hung  still 
And  twinkling  in  the  lustrous  void, 
I  stood,  and  dreamed  this  world  destroyed, 
That  the  vast  heavens  bent  to  scan 
A  blank  world,  innocent  of  Man. 

Chaotic  effort,  vain  pretence 

Melted  before  the  innocence 

Of  an  Earth  uninhabited 

Even  by  the  pale  and  solemn  dead. 

It  was  as  if  no  life  had  been, 

And  no  first  shame  and  no  first  sin. 

The  shrieks  of  creeds,  the  groans  of  wars 

Were  dumb,  beneath  the  steady  stars; 

No  Man-made  discords,  song  or  weeping, — 

Not  even  the  thought  of  thousands  sleeping 

To  waken,  piteous  or  gay, 

To  the  prompt,  unrelenting  Day. 

Only  the  things  of  little  brain, 

Of  natural  joy  and  natural  pain ; 

Beasts  and  birds,  like  as  trees  and  flowers 

Dreamed  through  that  hush  that  numbed  their  powers. 

And,  while  no  sound  came,  far  or  near, 
I  felt  God's  weariness  ensphere 
The  universe.    His  breath  respired 
Faintly,  more  faint.    God,  even,  tired 
Of  his  long  joy  and  his  long  pain, — 
This  World.     He  slept  to  dream  again ! 

And  the  south  breeze  breathed  on  and  on 
Of  no  more  hope,  of  no  more  dawn, 
Of  no  more  effort,  naught  to  plan, 
With  all  the  world  erased  of  Man. 

But  I  remained;  a  being,  no  less, 
With  the  world's  weight  of  consciousness ; 
First,  in  an  ecstasy  of  release, 
Feeling  my  heart  expand  with  peace 
Such  as  no  man  on  earth  has  known, 
And  then, — intolerably  alone. 

So,  on  my  eyes  all  Earth's  delight 

Flashed  like  a  pageant  blinding-bright, 

Illumined  by  my  utter  fear, 

Till  even  the  most  minute  grew  clear; 

Mountains  in  sunlight,  storm  and  snow; 

Green  forest  lands,  green  fields  below; 

Cataract  rivers,  heaving  seas 

Of  dazzling  sapphire;  writhen  trees, 

Billows  of  flowers  and  flights  of  birds; 

Beasts  of  the  jungle,  flocks  and  herds 


[31] 


WHEN    GOD    WEARIED 

Familiar;  all  the  clouds  that  blow 
Gorgeous  with  color  across  the  glow 
Where  the  sunrise  and  sunset  meet; 
Forked  golden  lightnings,  pearly  sleet, 
Tremendous  thunder-bursts;  all,  all 
That  turns  this  life  so  magical ! 
Before  my  eyes  they  mingled,  most 
Like  the  wild  banners  of  an  host 
In  utter  rout,  wave  on  rich  wave 
Withdrawing  to  the  Brain  that  gave. 

And  then  the  cities  marching  came, 
Their  walls  arock,  their  roofs  aflame; 
Bridges  and  ships,  a  splendid  spoil; 
All  the  inventions  of  Man's  toil 
Surged  in  great  epic  pictures  pas*, 
Uprushed  in  smoke,  and  sought  the  vast. 

Thus  I  knew  beauty,  and  the  worth 

Of  every  bitter  task  on  earth. 

Thus  I  knew  awe  naught  else  could  give, — 

And  one  supreme  desire, — to  live ! 

All  things  flashed  pristine  on  my  view; 
The  dreams  even  God  could  not  undo, 
The  splendors  no  high  Heaven  could  dull, 
The  World  even  God  could  not  annul ! 

"Aye,  weary  of  your  plan!"  I  cried, 

"But  this  was  wrought,  and  shall  abide. 

Our  agony  makes  consecrate 

A  World  you  may  not  uncreate ! 

You  gave  us  Beauty  past  all  thought, — 

But  we  have  travailed,  we  have  wrought 

In  blood  and  tears  to  build  it  new ! 

And  marred  it?     But  can  You  undo 

Your  thought,  for  that?     How  heavily 

We  labor  toward  eternity 

With  clumsy  visions,  acts  how  mean! 

Yet — 'tis  too  late  to  shift  the  scene, 

Or  Space's  myriad  stars  would  dart 

Their  spears,  and  pierce  You  to  the  heart!" 

I  spoke  in  anger  terror-born; 
And  dreamed,  and  woke,  and  it  was  morn. 
The  real  world  bound  me  round  again, 
Cherished  and  close,  and  loud  with  men, 
Labor  and  laughter,  grief  and  love. 
The  cheerful  sun  shone  out  above. 
Like  a  blue  wall  above  me,  high 
Towered  the  comfortable  sky! 


[32] 


MERCHANTS  FROM  CATHAY 

How  that  \  Their  heels  slapped  their  bumping  mules;   their  fat  chaps 

They  came.  glowed. 

Glory  unto  Mary,  each  seemed  to  wear  a  crown ! 
Like  sunset  their  robes  were  on  the  wide,  white  road: 

So  we  saw  those  mad  merchants  come  dusting  into  town ! 

Of  their  Two  paunchy  beasts  they  rode  on  and  two  they  drove  before. 

Beasts,  May  the  Saints  all  help  us,  the  tiger-stripes  they  had! 

And  the  panniers  upon  them  swelled  full  of  stuffs  and  ore ! 
The  square  buzzed  and  jostled  at  a  sight  so  mad. 

And  their  i  They  bawled  in  their  beards,  and  their  turbans  they  wried. 

Boast,  They  stopped  by  the  stalls  with  curvetting  and  clatter. 

As  bronze  as  the  bracken  their  necks  and  faces  dyed — 
And  a  stave  they  sat  singing,  to  tell  us  of  the  matter. 

With  its  "For  your  silks,  to  Sugarmago!    For  your  dyes,  to  Isfahan! 

Burthen  Weird  fruits  from  the  Isle  o'  Lamaree! 

But  for  magic  merchandise, 
For  treasure-trove  and  spice, 

Here's  a  catch  and  a  carol  to  the  great,  grand  Chan, 
The  King  of  all  the  Kings  across  the  sea! 

And  "Here's  a  catch  and  a  carol  to  the  great,  grand  Chan; 

Chorus.  For  we  won  through  the  deserts  to  his  sunset  barbican; 

And  the  mountains  of  his  palace  no  Titan's  reach  may  span 
Where  he  wields  his  seignorie! 

A  first  "Red-as-blood  skins  of  Panthers,  so  bright  against  the  sun 

Stave  On  the  walls  of  the  halls  where  his  pillared  state  is  set 

Fearsome,  They  daze  with  a  blaze  no  man  may  look  upon! 

And  with  conduits  of  beverage  those  floors  run  wet! 

And  a  second       "His  wives  stiff  with  riches,  they  sit  before  him  there. 
Right  hard  Bird  and  beast  at  his  feast  make  song  and  clapping  cheer. 

To  stomach  And  jugglers  and  enchanters,  all  walking  on  the  air, 

Make   fall   eclipse   and   thunder — make   moons   and    suns 
appear! 

And  a  third,  "Once  the  Chan,  by  his  enemies  sore-prest,  and  sorely  spent, 
Which  is  a  Lay,  so  they  say,  in  a  thicket  'neath  a  tree 

Laughable  Where  the  howl  of  an  owl  vexed  his  foes  from  their  intent: 
Thing.  Then  that  fowl  for  a  holy  bird  of  reverence  made  he ! 

Of  the  Chan's       "And  when  he  will  a-hunting  go,  four  elephants  of  white 
Hunting.  Draw  his  wheeling  dais  of  lignum  aloes  made; 

And  marquises  and  admirals  and  barons  of  delight 
All  courier  his  chariot,  in  orfrayes  arrayed! 


[33] 


MERCHANTS    FROM    CATHAY 


We  gape  to  "A  catch  and  a  carol  to  the  great,  grand  Chan! 

Hear  them  endf  Pastmasters  of  disasters,  our  desert  caravan 

Won  through  all  peril  to  his  sunset  barbican, 

Where  he  wields  his  seignorie! 
And  crowns  he  gave  us!    We  end  where  we  began: 
A  catch  and  a  carol  to  the  great,  grand  Chan, 
The  King  of  all  the  Kings  across  the  sea/" 

And  are  in  Those  mad,  antic  Merchants !    .   .   .   Their  striped  beasts  did 

Terror,  beat 

The  market-square  suddenly  with  hooves  of  beaten  gold ! 
The  ground  yawned  gaping  and  flamed  beneath  our  feet! 

They  plunged  to  Pits  Abysmal  with  their  wealth  untold ! 

And  dread  And  some  say  the  Chan  himself  in  anger  dealt  the  stroke — 

it  is  For  sharing  of  his  secrets  with  silly,  common  folk: 

Devil's  Work!       But  Holy,  Blessed  Mary,  preserve  us  as  you  may 

Lest  once  more  those  mad  Merchants  come  chanting  from 
Cathay! 


THE  HEART'S   COLLOQUY 


Love  said  to  W°rsMP>  "How  saw  you  our  lady, 

At  our  meeting  yester-evening,  that  home  you  came  so  slow?" 
Worship  raised  his  eyes,  and  rapt  and  yearning  said  he, 

"Hey,  my  heart  is  heavy  with  the  loss  that  I  know! 
I  saw  her  like  a  light  as  pure  as  starshine  flaming 

And  my  sin,  that  thought  to  win  that  light,  as  dark  again! 
Her  beauty  smote  my  heart  with  pain  beyond  all  naming. 

Sing  to  my  despair  how  'twas  you  saw  her  then!" 

And  Love  said,  "I  saw  her  in  choicest  sweet  attire, 

With  greeting  calm  and  kindly,  as  careless  I  were  near. 
She  dreamed  with  quiet  brows,  crooning  tunes  beside  the  fire, — 
But  she  smiled  through  her  dreaming.     I  know  she  holds  me  dear!" 

Love  said  to  Worship,  "How  left  you  our  lady, 

At  the  end  of  yester-evening,  that  home  you  came  so  sad?" 
Worship  drooped  his  eyes,  and  soft  and  slowly  said  he, 

"I  bore  a  heavy  burden,  for  the  hope  that  I  had. 
I  left  her  as  a  star  set  high  beyond  all  hailing, 

So  pure  none  may  endure  her  beams,  of  mortal  men ! 
I  left  her  thronged  with  angels,  before  her  throne  vailing ! 

Sing  to  my  despair  of  how  you  left  her  then!" 

And  Love  said,  "I  left  her  with  thoughts  that  sought  to  flee  me, 
With  hands  withheld  demurely,  and  low-voiced  'Come  again!' 

I  left  her  turned  aside,  with  eyes  that  would  not  see  me, — 
But  when  I  passed  the  window  she  watched  me  from  the  pane!" 


[34] 


THE  RIVAL  CELESTIAL 


God,  wilt  Thou  never  leave  my  love  alone? 

Thou  comest  when  she  first  draws  breath  in  sleep, 

Thy  cloak  blue  night,  glittering  with  stars  of  gold. 
Thou  standest  in  her  doorway  to  intone 

The  promise  of  Thy  troth  that  she  must  keep, 
The  wonders  of  Thy  heaven  she  shall  behold. 

Her  little  room  is  filled  with  blinding  light, 
And  past  the  darkness  of  her  window-pane 

The  faces  of  glad  angels  closely  press, 
Gesturing  for  her  to  join  their  host  this  night, 
Mount  with  their  cavalcade  for  Thy  domain ! 

Then  darkness    .    .    .    but  Thy  work  is  done  no  less. 

For  she  hath  looked  on  Thee,  and  when  on  me 
Her  blue  eyes  turn  by  day,  they  pass  me  by. 

All  offerings — ev'n  my  heart — slip  from  her  hands. 
She  moves  in  dreams  of  utter  bliss  to  be, 

Longs  for  what  nought  of  earth  may  satisfy. 
My  heart  breaks  as  I  clutch  love's  breaking  strands. 

I  clutch — they  part — to  the  wide  winds  are  blown. 

And  she  stands  gazing  on  a  cloud,  a  star, — 

Blind  to  earth's  heart  of  love  where  heaven  lies  furled. 
God,  wilt  Thou  never  leave  my  love  alone? 

Thou  hast  all  powers,  dominions,  worlds  that  are; 

And  she  is  all  my  world — is  all  my  world ! 


THE  SNARE  OF  THE  FOWLER 


Love,  the  wild  fowler,  spreads  his  nets  with  care, 
And  deep-toned  warning  both  our  hearts  have  heard, 
Even  as  the  old-time  low-bell  held  each  bird 
Suddenly  trembling,  nestling  pair  by  pair 
Dark  in  the  covert,  till  a  blinding  glare 
Of  torchlight  and  a  clamorous  shouted  word 
Dazed  their  bright  eyes,  and  terrified  wings  upwhirred 
To  baffled  blundering  in  the  close-drawn  snare. 

So,  sweet,  we  cower  at  our  warning  bell. 
Creep  close  to  me,  where  shadows  gird  us  round. 
Fear  we  that  wild  revealment?     Nay,  not  we! 
"Ah,  perilous  play,  to  cross  Love's  stalkir.g-ground!" 
You  whisper  .  .  .  yet  our  eyes,  our  eyes  could  tell 
Of  hearts  that  leap  to  meet  their  certainty ! 


[35] 


INVULNERABLE 


Armorers  met  me  at  the  marge  of  life, 

Weapon-bearers,  calling  each  his  ware, — 
How  this  shining  sword,  that  sinuous  knife, 

Fashioned  for  the  strife 
In  the  forest  depths  that  lay  before, 
Would  ward  off  malice  or  could  pierce  despair, 

Or  this  shield  affright 
All  the  hissing  snakes  in  envy's  hair, 

Or,  when  temptation's  sudden  arrow  sped, 
How  this  buckler  of  stern  proof  and  bright 
Glanced  the  shaft,  the  tempter  overbore; 

Or  this  helm  securely  vizarded 
Turned  the  thrusts  of  mockery  and  spite. 

Loudly  "Arm  you!    Arm  you!"  rose  their  cry; 
And  I  chose  a  shield,  indifference, 
And  a  blade,  sharp  wit,  for  my  defense. 
Close-meshed  mail  beneath  my  gabardine 

Glittered  all  unseen. 
Proud  I  strode  and  whirled  my  sword  on  high. 

Then  my  friend  went  by, 
Passing  in  his  shining  joy  unarmed, 
With  not  even  an  amulet  that  charmed; 
Singing  for  the  innocence  confessed 
In  his  sparkling  eyes,  his  buoyant  breast; 
Swiftly,  gaily  thrusting  through  the  trees 

To  his  deep  and  darkling  forest  doom 
As  I  thought.    But  still  before  me  goes, 

Blithe  and  wonderful,  his  candid  smile 
Every  ambushed  shadow  to  illume, 
And  the  quickening  sympathy  that  glows 
Sudden  on  his  cheek  when  friends  seem  foes, 

And  his  utter  radiance  without  guile, 
Merry  ignorance,  where  I  am — wise? 

Where  they  lurk  and  snarl  and  close  with  me 
All  unscathed  of  foemen  passeth  he 
Seeing  no  strife,  unarmed  eternally.  .  .  . 
And  e'en  the  Terrors  turn  away  their  eyes ! 


[36] 


THE  SECOND  COVENANT 


I  dreamt  that  we  were  lying 

On  a  high  hill  afar, 
Our  deepest  thoughts  replying 

To  one  lone  star. 
High  from  the  vault  of  heaven 

Its  silver  rays  were  shed; 
And  the  deep  peace  between  us 

Was  the  peace  of  the  dead. 

Our  busy  lives  were  over, 

Our  day  and  night  and  day; 
Of  you  and  me,  your  lover, 

Nought  more  to  say; 
And  sorrows  we  had  vanquished, 

And  blisses  we  had  known, 
And  our  cares  and  our  kisses 

To  the  four  winds  were  blown. 

The  handclasp  of  contrition, 

The  eyesight  of  each 
Where  each  had  recognition, 

Were  passed,  with  our  speech. 
Vast  night  declared  above  us, 

"Now  sight  and  semblance  fade, 
No  heart's  emotion  bindeth 

A  shadow  to  a  shade." 

Then  within  me,  lying  near  you, 

A  dark  sadness  grew 
That,  to  cherish  or  to  cheer  you, 

There  was  nought  left  to  do. 
Of  happy  daily  service 

Nought  now  remained  to  me — 
Of  good  news  for  you  and  comfort 

As  once  it  used  to  be. 

No  beauty  save  the  spirit's 

Abode  wide  heaven's  scrolls; 
No  charm  the  flesh  inherits, 

No  strength  save  the  soul's; 
As  breath  upon  a  mirror 

All  recognizing  sign. 
Yet  nearer  far  and  dearer 

Your  soul  spoke  to  mine. 

For  viewed  not  of  each  other, 

But  closer  side  by  side 
Than  child  unto  his  mother, 

Than  husband  to  bride, 
Thought  unto  thought  you  answered. 

One  prayer  we  seemed — one  breath; 
And  the  deep  love  between  us 

Was  the  love  after  death. 


[37] 


I  SAW  AN  ANGEL  STANDING  IN  THE  SUN" 


I  saw  an  angel  standing  in  the  sun. 
Noon  fields  around  him  shimmered  gold  and  green. 
His  curving  pinions  sheathed  him  in  their  white. 
The  soft  roulades  of  breezes  ceased  to  run 
Rippling  among  the  flowers.    I  knelt  unseen, 
Scarce  drawing  breath,  before  the  magic  sight. 

Splendid  and  silent,  wonderful  and  wise, 

He  shone  in  mail  like  moonlight,  silver-blue ; 

Mailed  hands  upon  a  sword  of  flickering  flame. 
And,  when  he  glanced,  his  iridescent  eyes 

With  pangs  of  utmost  anguish  pierced  me  through — 
Or  utmost  bliss — for  none  might  give  it  name. 

The  haycock's  violet  shadows  shimmeringly 

Lengthened,  as  moments  passed;  but  still  he  stood 

In  bright  contours,  with  eyes  that  gazed  afar. 
A  laggard  cloud  crept  down  the  azure  sky, 

Drifting  to  anchorage  o'er  the  drowsing  wood. 
Could  one  but  know  what  thoughts  of  angels  are ! 

Dreamed  he  night  vigils  and  the  challenge  given 
To  brother  cherubim  who  changed  the  guard 

On  parapets  celestial  ?     Did  he  hark 
That  glory  of  praise  that  shakes  the  gates  of  heaven 
When  Death's  proud  ship  seeks  anchor,  darkly  sparred, 
At  ghostly  quays  where  spirits  disembark? 

Then  all  my  surmise  shook  to  mist  again. 

He  moved;  stooped  glittering;  slowly  gathered  up 

A  meadow  flower,  and  held  it  to  his  cheek 
As  a  child  might  for  its  reflection-stain. 

Softly  he  stroked  the  small,  bright  buttercup.     .     .     . 
And  his  smile  dawned  with  thoughts  no  soul  can  speak. 


[38] 


THE  ICONOCLAST 


He  slid  like  lightning  down  the  steeple, — 

Flashed  through  their  streets  like  rapid  flame, 
In  rags  and  tatters  red  and  yellow, 
With  tongue  in  cheek — a  waspish  fellow. 
He  louped  and  leered  at  all  the  people 
And  bade  them  blush  for  shame. 

He  seemed  the  gadfly  lo  lowed  at, 
The  sheep-tick  in  their  sheepish  wool. 

He  woke  their  sleep  with  ribald  laughter. 

Their  prejudices  quaked  thereafter. 
Their  each  sententiousness  he  strode  at, 

And  seized  its  nose  to  pull. 

They  held  hard  by  their  ancient  steadings, 
While  dust-clouds  rose  and  cobwebs  flew. 
Ubiquitous  he  pranced  to  pillage 
Each  hallowed  custom  of  their  village. 
Their  rural  prints  all  blazed  with  headings : 
"The  dog  shall  have  his  due!" 

Stout  burgesses  grew  yellow-mottled 
With  spleen.     Stout  constables  pursued 
The  whirling  waif.    Still  laughing  madder 
He  banged  them  with  his  buffoon's  bladder. 
He  choked  their  mayor  scarlet-wattled, 
With  cries  of  "Platitude!" 

A  town  of  pride,  a  town  of  decent 
And  comfortable  lights  and  views 

Was  Snore-by-Day,  with  none  to  scorn  it, 
When  suddenly  forthbuzzed  this  hornet, 
Flame-hot,   heretically   recent, 
To  startle  and  confuse. 

So  for  his  day  he  held  the  rostrum — 
Electric  messenger  to  Earth! 

And  eyes  were  rubbed  and  heart-beats  heightened. 
The  town  awoke.     The  town  was  frightened. 
They'll  sleep  again  in  half  a  lustrum — 
But,  'ware  the  wonder-birth ! 


[39] 


THE  SHADOWED  ROAD 

Our  shadows  moved  before  us  on  the  road. 

The  trees  that  watched  us  brooded  dark  and  still, 

Streaked  by  the  frost  with  phosphorescent  gray. 

Chill  followed  sharply  on  a  gorgeous  day 
Of  winds,  blown  leaves,  red  bonfires.     Faintly  showed 

The  mist-ringed  moon  above  the  pasture  hill. 

Our  shadows  moved  before  us.     By  our  side 

New  mystery,  throbbing  through  the  rhythm  of  life, 
Echoed  our  footsteps;  and  its  presence  grew 
So  real  to  me,  I  felt  its  power  endue 
An  archangelic  shape,  whose  phantom  stride 

Rhymed  with  our  own  who  walked  as  man  and  wife. 

Light  fell  upon  us  from  the  glimmering  moon, 
And  light  upon  his  face  whose  name  is  Love. 
Ah,  the  rapt  eyes,  the  tender,  quickening  gaze, 
The  splendor  on  that  wild  immortal  face! 
Then  hurrying  cloud  possessed  the  heavens,  and  soon 
I  saw  his  shadow  darken  from  above. 

Beyond  our  own  it  stretched  along  the  way, 

The  darkness  of  Death's  cowl,  more  deep  than  night. 
Gulfing  our  own,  it  blotted  out  the  road, 
The  shadow  of  Love  that  brightest  dreams  forebode 
Yet,  in  my  soul  I  found  a  thing  to  say: 

"Though  darkness  go  before,  we  walk  in  light. 

"This  is  Love's  answer!"    For  Death's  night  must  move 
Onward  before  two  hearts  that  cast  out  fear, 
Joined  by  the  closest  of  immortal  bonds. 

«n    T£e/  sha11  speak  truth  when  Prayer  to  prayer  responds, 
"Death  but  precedes  us  as  the  shade  of  Love. 
Light  falls  about  us  from  a  surer  sphere!" 


AUTUMN 

Autumn,  like  Atalanta,  fleetly  flees, 

Galey  robes  streaming,  leaf -blown  down  the  wind: 
And  'tis  our  pleading  hearts  that  race  behind 

Striving  to  clasp  her  by  her  golden  knees, 

To  stay  her  sorrowful  beauty,— but  the  trees 

Glance  with  her  brilliant  flight.     Oh,  grave  and  kind, 
Hide  ye  no  russet  hoards,  that  we  may  find 

And  fling  the  apples  of  Hippomenes? 

Clouded  about  with  birds,  fawn-nuzzled,  still 
Her  speed  outstrips  us,  and  the  woods  are  dead 
Of  dream  or  color — all  their  incense  fled ! 

Across  the  burning  marsh  she  gains  the  hill 
And  breathless  turns  her  beautiful,  bright  head 

And  mocks  with  pagan  laughter,  sweetly  shrill. 


[40] 


THE   BLIND   LEGION 


Their  drums  roll  on  the  night.     Their  fifes  shrill  up  the  dawn. 

Their  coming  is  of  light. 

Bright  files,  raised  knee  by  knee,  swing  by  perpetually. 
Saith  one,  'They  march  in  shame,  ill-fame,  or  fouler  name!" 

But  I  know  not  in  my  heart. 

I,  who  brood  apart, 
Know  only  in  my  heart :  they  are  marching,  marching  on ! 

Uncaptained,  rank  by  rank  their  tramp  and  tread  rocks  by. 

No  weapons  gleam  or  clank, 

And  neither  voice  nor  sign  is  flashed  along  their  line. 
Saith  one,  "They  march  with  pride  and  boast  that  Heavens  deride!" 

But  I  know  this  verily 

Who  watch  them  secretly: 
They  are  marching  Whitherless  with  neither  Whence  nor  Why ! 

Skies  o'er  them  have  they  none  but  one  unshining  arch 

Of  Time.     The  years  withdrawn 
Roll  down  its  western  slope ;  and  on  its  eastern  cope, 
Saith  one,  the  years  to  be  crowd  forth  unweariedly. 

I  only  see  their  white 

Stern  faces  in  the  night, — 
I  know  only,  without  fear  their  dauntless  dying  march ! 

Their  drums  roll  on  the  night.     Their  fifes  shrill  up  the  dawn ! 

With  neither  voice  nor  sight 

Grim  files,  raised  knee  by  knee,  fade  past  perpetually. 
Saith  one,  "They  march  in  sin  and  shame,  no  bliss  to  win !" 

But  I  know  not,  in  my  heart. 

I,  who  brood  apart, 
Know  only  in  my  heart, — they  are  marching,  marching  on. 


THE  TAMER  OF  STEEDS 


Beyond  this  world  where  skies  are  free  from  stain, 
Where  brilliant  flowers  blow  in  open  meads, 
I  heard  the  drumming  hooves  of  many  steeds 
Raise  maddening  music  from  a  grassy  plain. 
They  passed,  with  snorting  nostril,  flying  mane, 
And  fiery  spirit ;  and  the  lad  who  breeds 
Their  mettled  herd,  and  pastures  them,  and  feeds, 
Rode  the  black  foremost,  scorning  spur  or  rein. 

His  eyes  were  like  a  seer's  and  like  a  child's. 

His  body  shone  irradiating  joy. 

He  fought  his  furious  mount  with  strength  and  art. 

And  then  my  mind  divined  the  glorious  boy 

As  Eros,  tamer  in  the  heavenly  wilds 

Of  all  the  passions  of  the  human  heart. 


[41] 


HIS  ALLY 

He  fought  for  his  soul,  and  the  stubborn  fighting- 

Tried  hard  his  strength. 

One  needs  seven  souls  for  this  long  requiting- " 
He  said  at  length. 

"Six  times  have  I  come  where  my  first  hope  jeered  me 

And  laughed  me  to  scorn; 
But  now  I  fear  as  I  never  feared  me 
To  fall  forsworn. 

"God!  when  they  fight  upright  and  at  me 

I  give  them  back 

Even  such  blows  as  theirs  that  combat  me' 
But  now,  alack! 

"They  fight  with  the  wiles  of  fiends  escaping 

And  underhand. 

Six  times,  O  God,  and  my  wounds  are  gaping! 
I— reel  to  stand. 

"Six  battles'  span !     By  this  gasping  breath 

No  pantomime. 

Tis  all  that  I  can.     I  am  sick  unto  death. 
And — a  seventh  time? 

"This  is  beyond  all  battles'  soreness!" 

Then  his  wonder  cried; 

For  Laughter,  with  shield  and  steely  harness, 
Stood  up  at  his  side! 


MISTRESS  FATE 

Flout  her  power,  young  man ! 
She  is  merely  shrewish,  scolding, — 
She  is  plastic  to  your  moulding, 

She  is  woman  in  her  yielding  to  the  fires  desires  fan. 
Flout  her  power,  young  man ! 

Fight  her  fair,  strong  man ! 
Such  a  serpent  love  is  this, — 
Bitter  wormwood  in  her  kiss ! 


[42] 


MISTRESS    FA  TE 

When  she  strikes,  be  nerved  and  ready; 
Keep  your  gaze  both  bright  and  steady, 

Chance  no  rapier-play,  but  hotly  press  the  quarrel  she  began ! 
Fight  her  fair,  strong  man! 

Gaze  her  down,  old  man! 
Now  no  laughter  may  defy  her, 
Not  a  shaft  of  scorn  come  nigh  her, 
But  she  waits  within  the  shadows,  in  dark  shadows  very  near. 

And  her  silence  is  your  fear. 

Meet  her  world-old  eyes  of  warning !    Gaze  them  down  with  courage !    Can 
You  gaze  them  down,  old  man? 


THE  SONG  OF  HER 

Thou  art  my  singing  and  my  voice, 
Thy  life  the  thing  that  I  would  sing, 

Perfect  past  words  of  perfect  choice, 
A  lovely*  and  a  lasting  thing. 

In  every  deed  of  thine,  sweetheart, 

The  poetry  of  heaven  has  part 

Beyond  the  gamut  of  all  art, 

Leaving  me  mute  and  marvelling. 

Thy  deeds,  like  rhymes,  I  have  by  heart, 
Thy  happy  deeds  of  heavenly  choice, 

Deeds  that  rise  rapt  and  shine  apart 
As  echoes  of  a  perfect  voice 

Rise  and  rejoice  when  voices  sing, 

Linger  and  ring — linger  and  ring 

Till  heaven  is  of  their  echoing 

And  all  the  heights  of  heaven  rejoice. 

Thou  art  the  song  that  I  would  sing, 

The  purest  song  of  purest  art, 
Till  men  stand  mute  for  marvelling, 

Aye,  till  the  singing  break  Man's  heart 
Where  sorrows  glory  to  rejoice 
In  perfect  notes  of  perfect  choice 
And  strains  of  One  deep,  tender  voice 
Transfigured  joys  from  sorrows  start. 

In  all  this  world  I  have  no  choice. 

If  I  would  sing  a  perfect  thing, 
Thou  art  my  singing  and  my  voice. 

Poor  rhymes  that  earn  no  welcoming — 
Rhymes  that  are  nothing  learned  in  art, 
From  heaven,  from  her,  such  worlds  apart — 
Creep  then  unto  her  tender  heart 

And  from  her  living  learn  to  sing! 


[43] 


THE  WRESTLERS 


Tell  me  thy  name,  thou  wrestler  in  the  night, 
Silent,  cruel-sinewed,  unbeheld  of  sight, 
Ere  another  day  bid  my  reason  wake, 
Ere  the  morning  break! 

Long  we  heave  and  strain,  grip  and  slip  and  hold, 
Struggling  hard  and  lithe,  warring  from  of  old ; 
And  thy  greater  strength  strives  unwearyingly. 
Tell  thy  name  to  me ! 

Nay,  thou  hast  me  not !    Yet  a  little  space, 
I  can  force  thy  hold,  I  shall  see  thy  face. 
Yet — the  vantage  slips.    Loud  my  pulses  beat 
With  foredoomed  defeat. 

Tell  me  thy  name,  wrestler  great  and  bright, 
Labouring  heart  to  heart  through  this  heavy  night ! 
As  when  Israel's  foe  touched  and  scarred  his  thigh, 
Wrenched  at  grips  am  I. 

Silence.     Shuddering  breath.    Graspings  swift  and  blind. 
All  life's  mystery  grappling  with  the  mind. 
Peniel's  silent  power — Man's  long  fierce  despite — 
Wrestling  through  the  night! 


THE  GUESTS  OF  PHINEUS 


Man  hungers  long.     Into  his  cup  is  poured 
Wine  of  pearled  brilliance  or  of  flaming  dyes 
From  gold  and  silvern  ewers  of  the  skies — 
The  sun  and  moon.    And  on  his  banquet-board 
Rich  lands  of  romance,  glamorous  seas,  afford 
His  vision  viands.     Yet  with  upturned  eyes 
Like  to  poor  Phineus,  he  still  descries 
The  shadows  overhead,  the  birds  abhorred. 

Ye  dark  enigmas  of  this  universe, 
Cloud  not  my  feast !    God,  give  me  thoughts  to  face 
And  rend  despair,  as  did  the  winged  twain 
Who  soared  above  the  baffled  guests  of  Thrace 
And  hurled  the  harpies  of  Jove's  ancient  curse 
To  whirlwind  ruin  o'er  the  Ionian  main ! 


[44] 


SINCERITIES 


I  praised  myself  for  nimble  wit. 

I  viewed  my  jest  with  pride. 
But  a  rock-spring  was  bubbling  it, 

And  subtler  jests  beside. 

My  breathless  ardor  was  my  boast, 
That  raced  the  heights  along, 

Till  a  great  wind  from  off  the  coast 
Drowned  it  in  sound  and  song. 

I  preened  me  on  my  mood  serene, 
And  knew  that  mood  was  none 

Beside  the  quietude  of  green 
Hill-meadows  in  the  sun. 

My  rational  armor  seemed  of  proof, 
Yet  who  could  hope  to  be 

Reticent  as  the  clouds  aloof, 
As  stoic  as  a  tree? 

Where  the  sincerities  possess 
Mountain  and  wood  and  dune 

My  fool-bells  of  self -consciousness 
Went  jangling  out  of  tune. 

Gladder  than  I  each  flower  is  still, 

Nobler  are  wind  and  sea , 
More  reverent  is  every  hill 

Than  I  may  hope  to  be. 


THE  WATER-SPRINGS 


Arbor  and  orchard  in  our  soul's  south  land 

Bore  fruit  on  either  hand; 

And,  caroling  songs,  we  strayed  among  our  vines 
How  hazard-gay,  yet  yearning  beyond  these, 

Unsatisfied,  for  all  our  fruits  and  wines, 
Thirsting  through  all  sweet  savours  of  all  things, 
Who  drew  no  strength  from  faith  and  charity's 
Higher  and  lower  springs. 

Joy's  cloying  fruits !    We  lacked  strong  grief, — no  less, 

Strict  without  bitterness; 

Humility's  purging  draught  clear-cold  and  keen. 
The  soul's  sweet  fields  were  ours  at  God's  command. 

All  unrefreshed  we  gazed  across  their  green, 
Our  plea  the  plea  of  Caleb's  wistful  daughter : 

« For  thou  hast  given  me  a  bright  south  land, — 

Give  also  springs  of  water!" 


[45] 


SONG  OF  THE  SATYRS  TO  ARIADNE 

The  satyrs  sing  to  Ariadne.  She  is  deserted  by  Theseus  on 
Naxos,  where  Dionysus  sues  and  wins  her.  The  marriage-rout 
recedes  into  the  forest. 

Round  the  ivied  bowl 

Rapturous  in  revels  dear, 
Maidens  all,  wild  of  soul, 

Gaily  footing,  curtsy  here! 
You  whose  wreaths  aslant 

Show  faun  faces  'neath  the  green, 
In  mad  shaggy  mirth  the  chant 

Raise  to  this  new  woodland  queen ! 

Airy  legion — 

O'er  your  region 
Phoebus  in  his  tent  above — 

Shower  our  singing 

With  your  winging 
Golden  darts  of  mirth  and  love ! 

Brilliant  feathered, 

Sunny- weathered 
Birds  of  this  our  dream  demesne, — 

As  your  chant  is, 

Fauns,  bacchantes, 
Hail  the  queen! 

Toss  the  flowery  chains! 

All  the  rosy  rout  delays. 
Bronze,  wild  woodland  swains, 

Twinkling  horns,  the  psean  raise! 
Cloven  hooves,  bare  feet,  beat  time, — 

Brown-coned  thyrses,  sway  and  swing 
Round  the  riot  of  this  rhyme 

To  our  trolling  woodland  king! 

As  to  Bacchus 

In  Lampsacus 
Roared  the  festal  fires  by  night, 

Where  mad  riot 

Shook  the  quiet 
Of  dark  forests  crimson-bright, 

Let  this  even 

Ruddy  levin 
Roll  around  our  bonfires'  blaze! 

Hearts  beat  quicker 

To  rich  liquor 
Broached  in  woodland  ways! 

Now  these  covert  aisles 

Gloom  from  green.     The  furry  folk 
Steal  to  join  our  wiles. 

Dusk  from  alder  and  from  oak. 
Hares  and  dappled  deer, 

Wonder-eyed  they  hem  us  round — 
Forms  familiar  drawing  near 

Phantoms  of  their  hunting-ground. 


[46] 


SONG    OF    THE    SATYRS    TO    ARIADNE 


Rosy  misting 
From  this  trysting, 
Maenads,  whirled  in  dizzy  dance — 
Cymbals  clashing, 
White  limbs  flashing- 
Lure  your  lovers,  laugh  and  glance! 
Dark-shanked,  swarthy 
Satyrs  for  ye 

Gambol  gleesome,  cry  and  call. 
The  dim  moon  swimming 
Night  o'erbrimming 
Drenches  gleams  o'er  all! 

Bound  with  green  and  gay 

Flowery  and  leafy  chains 
On  our  swaying  way 

Rollick  mirth  with  tumult  reigns! 
Sleep  the  fresh  warm  mornings  through, 

Sleep  not  while  dark  skies  so  deep 
Dazzle — myriad-starred — our  crew ! 
Casual  day  for  sleep! 

Night  hath  spilt  her 

Purple  philter 
From  the  wine-skin  of  the  sky ! 

Waking,  leaping, 

Our  unsleeping 
Comrades  of  the  copse  draw  nigh. 

Shake  the  staining 

Lees  remaining 
From  your  carven  goblets!     Fill! 

By  the  soaring 

Bonfire's  roaring 
Mirth  shall  have  its  will ! 

Queen  new-won  of  us, 

(Sun  thy  crown,  thy  face  the  moon, 
Pale  and  luminous!) 

Wane  not  from  our  sight  too  soon! 
House  not  with  thy  glorious  spouse 

Till  once  more  the  flaming  wine 
Drench  our  throats  and  dash  our  brows 
To  our  queen  divine! 


[47] 


PUCK'S  SWEETHEART 


Singeth  the  Spirit  of  the  Weir: 

Lie  like  a  necklace  light, 

Star-reflections,  where  she  floats 
Slowly  toward  the  waterfall! 
Birds  all  unmusical, 

Force  faint  cadence  through  your  throats ! 
Lo,  the  lovely  lady  drowned! 
Fauns  in  the  forest  round, 

Hark  what  this  midnight  notes! 


Singeth  a  faun: 


Singeth  a  fairy  : 


She  was  our  woodland  queen, 
Gowned  in  the  green  and  gold; 
Court  in  the  copse  did  hold, 

Throne  in  the  thicket  swayed. 

She  was  daringly  arrayed, 
Robed  in  the  bronze  and  red. 
Spring  and  Autumn  turned  her  bed. 

Summer  was  her  blithe  handmaid! 

Wildly  we  loved  her, 

We  of  the  woodland  ways ; 

Vassalled  her  nights  and  days. 
Nought  of  it  moved  her. 
She  was  sunlight  on  the  sward, 

A  flicker  through  the  green, 
An  elfin  note  of  laughter, 

Silvers  of  the  birch  between! 


By  the  brown  pool 

Lay  she  adream  one  day. 
Over  her  shoulder 
Puck  peeped  the  bolder. 
Oh,  for  his  mirthful  face 

Then  grew  she  fain,  they  say. 
Darling-wild  she  hunted  him 

Laughing  her  nay! 

Through  golden  gloom 
Fast  went  their  flying  feet; 
Down  the  green  glade 

Darted  disorder. 
Berry-stained  loveliness, 
Feet  the  grass  clutched  to  kiss ! 
Roguish,  oh  roguish  Puck, 
Nought  to  accord  her! 


Singeth  the  Spirit  of  the  Weir: 

Clung  he  the  rainbow 
Risen  o'er  the  river. 
Leaped  she  like  light, — 


[48] 


PUCK'S    SWEETHEART 


And  with  wail  dropped  to  death. 
Weep,  nets  that  drew  her  drowned! 
Wail,  elfin  fish,  that  found 

Love   without   breath! 

Lie  like  a  necklace  light, 
Star-reflections,  where  she  floats 
Down  to  her  tidal  bier! 
Birds,  sing  no  bridal  here! 

Moan  all  the  woodland  throats, 
Aching  for  the  lady  drowned. 
Puck  heaves  in  sobs  profound. 

Woe,  woe  this  midnight  notes! 


LOVE  IN  ARMOR 


Love  scorns  that  Love  implore  you 
To  bind  his  hurts  or  heal; 
Prays  only,  arm  around  you, 
To  draw  on  hours  that  hound  you, 
To  whirl  his  sword  before  you 
And  fence  your  path  with  steel. 

Not  for  the  beauty  of  you, 
The  peace  of  all  your  ways, 
He  burns, — but  in  your  quarrel 
To  hold  the  pass  of  peril, 
To  stand  at  arms  above  you 
Against  embattled  days. 

No  comfort  for  his  blundering 
He  cries  your  heart  to  yield, 
But  that  his  arm  enfold  you, 
His  shield-arm  shield  and  hold  you 
Safe,  while  the  foe  charge  thundering, — • 
His  sword  against  the  field! 


[49] 


AN  EMISSARY  TO  HEAVEN 


Gray  snow  adrift  whirled  down  the  wind, 
The  smothered  highways  left  behind, 
And  scattered  lights  from  hamlets  far 
Waned,  dimmed,  and  died.     A  single  star 
Pierced  the  eternity  of  night; 

Amain  I  rode  and  sang ! 
While,  from  high  heaven  beyond  my  sight, 
"God  speed,  God  speed  thee  to  the  light!" 

The  seraph  broadswords  rang. 

One  in  black  rides  on  the  left, 
One  in  gray  behind, 

One  in  red  storm-blown  ahead, 
And  on  the  right  rides  one  bereft 
Of  cloak  or  blade,  the  scornful  wind 
Scourges  his  naked  head! 

The  wind  held  phantom  voices  shrill, 
Held  voices  that  were  never  still ; 
And  down  the  cruel  night's  keen  scorn 
Shapes  fled  me,  with  a  shroud  forlorn — 
The  black  shroud  that  they  wove  for  me! — 

Yet  on  I  rode  and  sang. 
And  from  dark  heaven  dreadfully, 
"Three,  three  there  be  are  false  to  thee!" 

The  seraph  broadswords  rang. 

One  in  black  has  whispered,  "Fail!" 
One  in  gray,  "Turn  back!" 

One  in  red  a  word  of  dread ; 
But,  at  right  hand,  "Thou  canst  not  quail! 
What  though  thy  soul  is  on  the  rack — 
Hearths  are  to  guard!"  one  said. 

The  cold  gave  bitter  draughts  to  slake 
My  burning  thirst  for  haste  and  wake 
Hot  hidden  wounds ;  where  hope  had  been 
The  cold  thrust  barb  and  javelin 
'Twixt  plate  and  plate  of  my  weak  mail; 

Yet  still  I  rode  and  sang! 
And,  wilder  o'er  the  towering  gale, 
"Prevail,  prevail— wilt  thou  prevail?" 

The  seraph  broadswords  rang. 

One  in  black  has  twitched  my  cloak, 
One  in  gray  whined  low, 

One  in  red— "Misled!   Misled!" 
But,  at  right  hand,  a  low  voice  spoke, 
"Warden  of  souls — they  named  thee  so — 
Art  thou  then  vanquished?" 


[50] 


AN    EMISSART    TO    HEAVEN 

Wrestled  night's  passions  for  my  heart. 
The  fearful  powers  of  night  upstart 
Panting  to  throttle  will  and  soul. 
"A  bitter  toll,  a  bitter  toll! 
A  dark  grave  and  a  winding  sheet!" 

Yet  still  I  rode  and  sang. 
And,  clashing  over  storm  and  sleet, 
"Defeat,  defeat — canst  brave  defeat?" 

The  seraph  broadswords  rang. 

One  in  black  my  throat  has  grasped, 
One  in  gray  mine  arm, 

One  in  red  has  flashed  a  blade; 
But,  at  right  hand,  "No  fear!"  one  gasped. 
"I  succour  thee!"     (My  heart  beat  warm.) 
"Ride  on,  ride  on!"  he  said. 

Then  sullenly  the  bitter  night 
Dimmed  grayly,  and  a  welcome  light 
Of  morning  and  mine  errand's  end 
Ran  to  me,  clasped  me,  called  me  friend. 
The  gate,  the  great  gate  swung  aside, 

And  in  I  rode  and  sang, 
While  round  me  'bout  in  flashing  tide, 
"To  thee  all  hail  for  thy  good  ride!" 

The  seraph  broadswords  rang. 

Black  Despair  we  thrust  him  through, 
Slew  gray  Half -faith  with  scorn. 

Fear  in  red,  we  left  for  dead. 
Through  storm,  wild  dark,  and  peril  too 
My  Trust  had  won  us,  scourged  and  torn, 
Dawn — and  our  errand  sped! 


MORGIANA  DANCES 


Aha!    A  guest! 

Within  my  master's  house,  a  guest — 
To  eat 
With  his  meat 

No  salt? 

Say  you  so! 

His  vest — his  vest — 

What  glitters  through  his  merchant's  vest? 
Fast  and  fleet !     Tabor,  beat ! 
Round  again  we  go ! 


[51] 


MORGIANA    DANCES 


Scarves  about  my  head — so ! 
Silver  girdle,  flash — ho! 
Round  again — again  we  go. 
Round  again — again  we  go. 
Chalk  upon  the  panel  there; 
Oil  upon  the  pave — beware! 
A  guest,  ho !   A  guest,  ho ! 
A  sweet  guest,  ho ! 

Laden  mules,  laden  mules 
Came  within  our  court  there. 

Who  boil 

In  their  oil? 
The  thieves? 
Say  you  so ! 

Fair  fools — fair  fools! 
The  moon  saw  the  sport  there! 

Spin,  spin!   Tabor,  din! 

Round  again  we  go! 

Thieves'  beards  be  red — so ! 
Poniard,  forth  and  flash — ho ! 
Round  again — again  we  go. 
Round  again — again  we  go. 
Master  Ali,  drunk  with  wine. 

Houssain,  only  I  divine! 
A  guest,  ho!   A  guest,  ho! 

A  sly  guest,  ho ! 

For  treasure,  for  pleasure 
Stabbed  and  plotted  many  men. 

The  fox 

Picked  the  locks. 
The  springe 
Seized  him — so! 
Full  measure — full  measure! 
Purses  for  my  dancing,  then? 

Purple  are  the  shadows; 

The  lamps  red  and  low. 

Poniard  at  my  breast — so! 

Poniard  at  thy  breast — ho! 
Round  again — again  we  go. 
Round  again — again  we  go. 
Here's  a  dagger's  smart  should  b« 

Salt  for  such  villainy! 
A  guest,  ho!   A  guest,  ho! 

A  dead  guest,  ho! 


[52] 


THE  RUNNERS 


Limbs  that  falter  and  fail  to  guide  us, 
Eyes  that  are  blind  to  the  shining  goal — 

We  have  striven,  Lord,  and  our  minds  deride  us, 
Shaken  of  body  and  sick  of  soul. 

Wilt  thou  hear  us  now  as  we  stagger  on? 

The  race  is  run — but  the  goal  is  gone. 

Fleet  from  the  start  like  a  cleaving  sabre, 

Our  course  lay  straight  and  we  laughed  for  strength. 
Forth  from  the  ruck  where  the  weaklings  labor, 

Well  to  the  forefront  we  won  at  length. 
Wilt  thou  hearken  now  to  our  gasping  cries? 
Who  lied  of  a  prize  where  there  is  no  prize? 

We  passed  them  by  who  fell  spent  or  meanly 

Dropped  from  the  running,  or  gazed  and  sneered. 

Still  laughed  our  blood  and  our  limbs  moved  cleanly. 
Well  worth  the  strife  was  the  goal  we  neared. 

Now,  Lord,  thou  hast  sealed  our  eyes  from  light. 

Is  the  end  but  night — is  the  end  but  night? 

Others  might  lag — we  were  born  for  running. 

Others  might  dally — for  us  the  race! 
We  have  striven  fairly,  no  trial  shunning, 

And  now  on  our  hope  thou  hast  veiled  thy  face. 
If  our  hope  mistook,  canst  thou  blame  us,  Lord? 
Thou  hast  taken  from  us  our  just  reward! 

Then  the  voice  of  the  Lord  from  his  cloud  of  fire: 
"To  each  have  I  shown  the  bounds  that  be, 

Yet  goals  ye  seek  and  to  crowns  aspire. 

Joy  ye  not  in  the  striving  that  ends  with  Me? 

Shaped  I  man  not  to  strive  and  to  shun  release? 

I  am  jroal  and  laurel!     The  prize  is — Peace!" 


EMPIRE 


I  saw  the  glorious  ocean  breaking 
Sapphire  beneath  a  sapphire  sky, 

The  thundering  surges  whitely  shaking 
Their  manes  of  surf  on  high. 

I  saw  the  black  rocks  drenched  and  gleaming 
Before  th'  assault  of  wave  on  wave, 

Till  up  the  Fands  the  tide  went  streaming 
Royal  with  ermine  kings  might  crave. 


[53] 


EMPIRE 


The  sun  o'er  all  progressed  his  heaven 

A  rajah  of  a  naos  golden, 
And,  drawing  round  him  shrouds  of  even, 

He  sank  in  gorgeous  pomp  and  olden. 

Life!   Life!    Thy  magi  still  adore  thee 
But  fail  for  offerings,  fail  and  fall 

In  overwhelmed  despair  before  thee 
That  hast  earth,  stars,  sea,  sun  and  all! 


THE  LOVER'S  VIGIL 


Breathe  a  song  for  love's  delight 
'Twixt  the  sleeping  and  the  waking! 
Starbeams  on  her  pillow  white, 
Halo  her  in  yellow  light! 
Is  her  bosom  tranquil  quite? 
Oh,  so  still,  her  heart  seems  breaking! 
'Twixt  the  sleeping  and  the  waking, 
Breathe  a  song  for  love's  delight! 

Smile  for  love  a  little  while, 

Now  her  dreams  are  rosy  round  her 

And  her  couch  a  fragrant  isle 

Floating  in  a  sea  of  smile! 

Waking,  what  may  reconcile 

For  the  Edens  slumber  found  her? 

Now  her  dreams  are  rosy  round  her, 

Smile  for  love  a  little  while ! 

'Tis  a  dusk  of  butterflies. 
All  the  twilight  stirs  with  sleeping. 
Through  her  casement,  drowsy-wise 
Peers  the  moon  of  Paradise. 
Blossom  mouth  and  violet  eyes, 
What  to  you  a  gray  world's  weeping? 
Draw  the  curtains !     Leave  her  sleeping 
In  d  duak  of  butterflies! 


[54] 


TO  CHILDREN 


I.      FAIRY  SONG. 

While  clouds  yet  slumbered  in  their  fold, 
Ere  sun,  God's  glorious  marigold, 
Pushed  forth  his  fervent,  fiery  head 
To  shine  above  the  garden  bed 
Of  earth,  whose  blooms  are  hours, 
Spinney  and  woodland's  entries  through 
Those  morning-glory  trumpets  blew 
That  summoned  forth  the  flowers: 

"Now  haste  ye,  Mab's  sweet  abigails, 
And  dress  your  queen  for  day! 
With  flounces  and  with  furbelows, 
With  silver  shoes  and  ribband  bows. 
The  dawn  comes  up  this  way — 

Tara! 
The  dawn  comes  up  this  way!" 

Her  violet  eyes  wee  hands  unclose, 
And  sweetly,  sweetly  up  she  rose. 
Her  robing-room  is  damask-dark 
Wherein  the  fireflies  touch  their  spark 
To  tapers  hung  on  high. 
So  cherished  and  so  dainty-sweet — 
Her  maidens  kneel  before  her  feet 
To  do  her  courtesy! 

For  equerries  she  shall  not  lack, 

Jack-booted,  bee-bestriding, 

To  hand  her  up  a-cricket-back 

And  squire  her  down  the  greenwood  track 

All  in  her  early  riding — 

Oh, 
All  in  her  early  riding! 

For  they  do  tell,  oh,  they  do  tell, 
The  charmed  Caterpillar  Dell 
Holds  bearded  bravos,  fuzzed  o'  fear, 
At  passers-by  that  growl  and  rear 
On  greedy  tribute  bent! 
But  Mab's  brave  squires'  blades  be  good 
That  slew  the  toad  o'  Bullrush  Wood, 
And  sword-play  is  their  stent! 

This  do  I  know  who  peer  between 
The  grass  blades  every  morn, 
And  mpsses  find  the  green  demesne 
Of  many  a  crowned  king  and  queen — 
For  I  was  Elfland-born, 
My  dear! 

Yes,  I  was  Elfland-born! 
[55] 


TO    CHILDREN 


2.     BRAGGARTS. 

This  morning  by  my  garden  wall, 

This  morning  as  I  came, 
The  gipsy-clad  nasturtiums  all 

Lit  up  my  heart  like  flame! 

Their  ragged,  brilliant  little  bells 

Were  gay  with  sunset  fires 
And  oh,  the  tale  their  leader  tells, 

Who  knows  their  soul  desires! 

Oh,  we  have  marched  by  sunset  seas 

And  danced  through  eerie  noons; 
Through  lilac  twilights,  dense  with  bees, 

Have  fleered  our  mad  platoons! 

"Gemmed  with  bright  rains,  when  gutters  ran 

Dun  floods  the  byways  through, 
The  village  folk  have  gaped  to  scan 

The  passing  of  our  crew! 

"By  olden  ports,  by  downs  and  dunes, 

By  fabled  lost  countrees, 
Our  rollick  feet  have  danced  to  tunes 

That  none  know  but  the  bees! 

"Swart  are  our  hearts  with  elfin  fire, 

And  strange  the  urge  we  know; 
And  now  we  flicker  with  desire 

To  flit,  to  march,  to  go!" 

And  yet  this  evening,  when  I  scanned 

For  that  which  might  befall, 
Drowsed  stood  my  bright  nasturtiums,  and 

All  dreaming  by  the  wall! 

3.      THE  GOLDEN  DAY. 

When  dim  across  the  lawn,  before  the  break  o'  day,  their  gleams  are  grown 
The  lights  o'  dew,  the  sprites  o'  dew,  that  flit  to  find  their  cloud. 
In  golden-dappled  forest  glooms  still  richer,  rarer  dreams  are  shown, 
Where  harebells  flicker  drenched  in  sun,  and  wood-doves  sob  aloud. 

Then,  heart,  'tis  up  and  far  to  be  this  day  of  all  the  days  o'  dream! 
Through  woodland  rides  of  woven  boughs,  by  pools  of  laughing  light 
Tis  light  of  foot  and  young  and  wild  to  seek  the  woodland  ways  o'' dream 
To  race  in  thrilling  freedom  with  all  forest  things  in  flight. 

We'll  dance  adown  the  billowing  hills.    Gay-plumaged  birds  shall  soar  to  us. 
We  11  plunge  in  thickets  berry-bright  and  stain  our  lips  with  mirth 
We  '11  stretch  our  arms  to  waterfalls  with  laughter  as  they  roar  to  us, 
The  fruits  and  flowers  of  childhood  ours — the  plenty-horn  of  earth! 

Oh,  we  '11  be  wild  and  young  and  free!     The  hare  shall  blink  bright  eye  to  us. 

The  dappled  deer  shall  nuzzle  us  and  race  to  lead  us  on. 

No  woodland  way  shall  covert  be,  no  woodland  creature  shy  to  us. 

And  night  shall  be  bird-minstrelsy  outrivaling  the  dawn. 

[56] 


TO    CHILDREN 

Oh,  we  '11  be  gay  and  rollick  too,  our  throats  athrill  with  caroling, 
Your  hair  with  rippling  sunlight  one,  your  lips  apart  for  joy! 
Of  hue  and  scent  of  sky  and  wood  we  '11  weave  our  rare  appareling. 
The  sun  shall  be  our  bauble  then — the  silver  moon  our  toy! 

So,  tired  with  day,  on  twilight  heights  when  sunset  rivers  darkening 
Bring  night  on  far  horizons,  and  the  stars  to  gem  the  night, 
We  '11  watch  the  lustrous  moon  arise,  to  far  field-music  barkening, 
Till  fireflies  dance  the  purple  dales,  and  slumber  veils  our  sight. 

And  then,  within  the  court  of  sleep,  where  man  and  beast  lie  down  at  last, 
Where  shadows  weave,  and  wistfully  the  radiant  visions  rain, 
Between  the  moonrise  and  the  sun  bright  dreams  shall  prove  our  crown  at  last, 
And,  safe  from  storm,  wide  wings  and  warm  enfold  our  sleep  again! 


4.      THE   FAIRY   REALM. 

Oh,  we  smiled  our  silent  pity  when  they  mocked  our  faith  as  fond! 
Well  we  knew  the  stately  city  past  the  bounding  of  beyond, 

All  its  streets  with  sunshine  glowing, 

All  its  towers  with  banners  flowing. 
We  were  going,  we  were  going  to  its  jasper  gates  beyond! 

There  the  mages  flout  at  sages,  and  the  knights-at-arms  are  there, 
And  the  little  Princess  Wildrose,  letting  down  her  golden  hair — 

In  the  night  of  dreams  and  roses, 

When  her  casement  latch  uncloses — 
To  the  Prince  the  tale  supposes  climbs  its  shimmering  like  a  stair. 

There  are  flagons,  there  are  dragons,  there  rings  Merlin's  mystic  tune! 
There  are  wizards,  weirdsome  lizards,  and  the  gardens  of  the  Moon; 

Fairy  kings  in  strange  disguises 

And  such  combats  and  surprises; 
Harps  and  flowers  and  haunted  bowers,  magic  cap  and  magic  shoon! 

There  the  centuried  sleepers  waken,  spells  encoil  or  set  one  free, 
And  the  gold-leaved  trees  are  shaken  with  a  rune  of  mystery, 

And  forever  and  forever 

Float  fair  sirens  on  the  river, 
Sing  bright  maidens  by  the  river,  spinning  silks  o'  glamxmrie! 

Oh,  the  blue  sea  that  shimmers  from  a  golden,  golden  shore, 

And  the  jeweled  state  that  glimmers  through  each  pillared  palace  door! 

Forest  depths  of  glinting  beryl 

Whispering  quests  of  daunting  peril — 
And,  at  night,  the  musicked  dancing,  whirling  down  each  glassy  floor! 

How  we  smile  to  hear  them  saying  there  is  no  such  land  at  all! 
For  the  fairy  steeds  are  neighing  in  each  marble  fairy  stall — 

Yes,  the  fairy  steeds  are  prancing, 

With  their  studded  bridles  glancing— 
And  tonight  we  '11  be  a-dancing  at  a  dazzling  fairy  ball! 


[57] 


TO   CHILDREN 


5.     DAME  HOLIDAY. 

No  such  a  name  as  Holiday  I  thought  me  to  have  found 
Till  I  went  forth  this  holy  day  beyond  the  city's  round 
Of  milling  wheels  and  clanging  bells 
Where  smoke  is  dark  and  clamor  swells, 

And  wandered  to  the  ground 
Of  Holiday,  Dame  Holiday, 
Dressed  in  her  best  Dame  Holiday, 

And  in  a  fair  compound! 
For  grasses  green  and  grasses  blue 
Made  o'er  her  dancing  plat  for  new 
And  arching  skies  of  lovelier  hue 

Walled  round  her  dancing  ground! 
No  such  a  name  as  Holiday?     She  hath  her  acres  yet! 
In  cramosie  and  taffeta;    and  pranked  with  blooms,   to  laugh   at  a 

Poor  grown-up  dullard  blinking  small,  she  foots  her  dewy-wet 
And  sun-warm  pastures,  curtsying  sweet,  with  budding  lips  and  twinkling  feet! 

She  whirled  me  through  a  merry  dance — Dame  Holiday  her  clown! 

The  fields  reeled   round  our  whirling  waltz,   the  sun  shook,  laughing  down; 
And  odors  out  of  Araby  and  gems  and  blooms  of  dream 
Swirled  from  her  vivid,  gracious  gown  with  glow  and  glint  and  gleam! 

I  crowned  myself  of  holiday 

With  sesame  and  rue. 
The  world  oped  gates  that  holy  day 

And  nature  passed  me  through! 

Old  grandsire  mountains  leant  their  knees,  and  I  was  companied  by  trees 
To  gaze  upon  the  wrestling  seas 

And  look  beyond  the  view! 

At  Acre  and  Byzantium  were  wonders  shown  of  old 

From  looms,  from  mines,  from  vats,  from  vines  rich  spoils  and  manifold, 

But  Holiday  had  wand  for  more 

Than  ever  man  had  seen  before 

If  that  the  truth  were  told! 

The  little  gnomes  that  work  in  mines,  the  folk  of  glades  and  trees, 
And  butterflies  like  valentines,  and  boist'rous  birds  and  bees 
We  gathered  for  our  retinue  to  dance  and  prance  the  hours  through 
With  mystery  and  history  and  worlds  beyond  the  view! 

This  rhyme  be  just  for  holiday.    The  world  was  colored  then. 
The  clouds  went  marching  up  the  blue  like  hosts  of  fighting  men. 

I  carol  out  of  tune  and  time 

O  child,  for  you  a  failing  rhyme — 

Let  fall  my  futile  pen — 

And  reach  my  arms  to  Holiday,  Dame  Holiday,  Dame  Holiday — 
Through  walls  to  float  to  Holiday  from  moil  and  toil  and  men! 

No  such  a  name  as  Holiday?    This  let  my  rhyme  be  worth: 
Go  search  for  Mistress  Holiday  the  ends  of  all  the  earth! 
Then,  an'  you  find  her  dancing  there 
In  her  wide  countryside, 

And  such  rare  sun  and  green  and  air  as  did  to  me  betide, 
Then,  an'  you  find  her  warm  and  rare 
In  God's  great  garden-place — 
Tell  her  I  found  her  fond  and  fair,  and  that  I  loved  her  face! 

[58] 


TO   CHILDREN 

6.      BIRDS  OF  THE  AIR. 
"A  bird  of  the  air  shall  carry  the  Voice." 

Oh,  the  birds  of  the  air,  in  the  sky  far  up  there, 
They  are  winging,  they  are  singing — the  birds  of  the  air. 
More  purely  than  all  passion — bright,  bright  above  all  pain, 
The  birds  of  the  air,  they  are  calling  you  again! 

For  on  high  the  windy  meadows  of  skyland  are  blest 
With  golden  lights,  blue  shadows,  high  turrets  where  they  nest— 
With  the  merlons  and  the  embrasures  of  cloud  castles  white, 
Where  warm  sunshine  enchants  them  from  morn  to  starry  night. 

So  they  trill  from  tree  and  lawn  and  the  leaves  of  our  eaves, 
But  they  fly  from  us  for  rapture  of  a  world  that  bereaves 
This  world  of  light  and  substance.    They  soar  and  find  the  true 
Where  our  care  covets  glory  in  bliss  beyond  the  blue. 

Aye,  when  colors  like  to  music — magic  music — suffuse 
The  skies,  with  dawn  or  evening,  they  soar  for  fuller  news. 
They  choir  before  the  maiden  East.    They  cloud  her  golden  hair. 
Through  the  sally-ports  of  sunset  wing  the  birds  of  the  air. 

The  birds  of  the  air,  in  the  blue  far  up  there, 
They  are  winging,  they  are  singing — the  birds  of  the  air. 
More  purely  than  all  passion— bright,  bright  above  all  pain, 
The  birds  of  the  air,  they  are  calling  you  again! 


"I  REMEMBER  MY  MOTHER" 


I  remember  my  mother 

In  the  deep  still  night-time, 

When  books  were  on  the  shelves  again 

And  toys  were  put  away, 

When  the  moonlight  filled  my  bed-room 

And  the  shadow-time,  the  flight-time 

Of  happy,  sleepy  memories 

Remade  the  merry  day. 

How  soft  the  door  was  opened, 
How  swift  she  stole  upon  me, 
With  covers  for  my  carelessness, 
Awake  enough  to  see 
Her  silver  dress  of  silentness, 
Her  wistful  brows  that  won  me; 
To  feel  her  touch  upon  me, 
And  the  way  she  looked  at  me! 


[59] 


7  REMEMBER  MY  MOTHER" 


The  book  that  always  slipped  from  bed 

Was  smiled  upon  and  taken. 

The  clothes  that  lay  both  far  and  near 

Were  folded  on  the  chair, 

And,  last,  she  kissed  me  lightly, 

So  lightly — not  to  waken, 

And  her  white  arms  were  about  me, 

And  her  soft  dark  hair. 

And  charger-borne  afar  that  night 

Through  spectral  lands  and  lonely, 

With  elves  close  riding 

For  some  dungeoned  castle-keep, 

I  thought,  "My  pretty  Mother! 

I  wear  her  favor  only." 

I  thought,  "My  lovely  Mother!" 

And  smiled  in  my  sleep. 


PERSONALITY 

With  words  of  other  men,  with  memories 

Bewildered  quite, 
Strange  with  a  pulse  that,  quicker  than  all  these, 

Tells  wrong  from  right, 
My  mind  marks  thought  on  thought  that  flits  and  flees 

By  day  and  night. 

Flickering  a  thousand  thoughts  of  hope  and  fear, 

Of  joy  and  pain, 
To  the  events  that  rouse,  the  moods  that  veer 

Each  day  again, 
Harried  and  clamorous,  alert  and  clear, 

So  shifts  my  brain. 

A  treasure-house,  a  fairyland,  a  waste, 

A  field  of  war; 
Jewelled  with  constellations,  and  erased 

Of  every  star; 
Save  in  dead  sleep  immediate  with  haste 

To  make  or  mar; 

Such  is  mine  instrument  upon  mine  act, 

With  something  there 
Battling  its  baser  fears  to  found  on  fact 

Whate'er  shines  fair 
Throughout  its  round;  to  reason,  to  exact; 

Flash  praise  or  prayer. 


[60] 


PERSONALITY 


As  one  who  through  a  train's  swift  window  sees 

The  fields  at  night 
Shift  and  change  form,  behind  their  flickering  trees,- 

The  moon's  pale  light 
Show  foaming  falls — a  forest's  mysteries — 

High  mountains  bright. 

So  my  brain  holds  and  loses  vision  of 

Whoe'er  devised 
Our  life-long  questioning,  our  life-long  love; 

Blindly  apprised 
Of  miracle;  athrill  with  each  new  move 

To  Truth  new-guised. 

And  the  blood  burns  or  shivers  through  my  veins, 

And  the  fleet  days 
Possess  me  with  their  fugitive  sharp  pains, 

Sweet  pangs,  delays 
And  onsets, — and  my  million  brother  brains 

Scan  me  at  gaze. 

From  the  hot  hearts  of  all  my  ancestry, 

Their  mental  toils, 
My  heart  takes  fire,  the  mind  they  gave  to  me 

Snatches  its  spoils; 
And  no  man  knows  me,  nor  myself  I  see 

Through  all  that  foils. 

Friends  mark  me  by  my  pleasure  or  my  task. 

My  lips  have  speech. 
They  read  by  these,  and  I;  yet  ever  ask 

Nor  find  in  each 
That  Self  which,  till  this  Pythian  world  unmask, 

No  man  may  teach. 


THE  WARDROBE  OF  REMEMBRANCE 


Guises  your  moods  once  wore  are  hung  within 

The  closet  of  my  mind.     I  take  access 

This  moment  to  regard  them  and  confess 

How  spare  for  want  of  you  they  hang,  and  thin. 

Pity  seems  all  their  argument  may  win, 

That  fine,  frail  rustling  of  each  mood's  meet  dress. 

Yet  starts  a  subtle  incense  from  the  press, 

Crushed   perfumes  of  the  flowers  your  thoughts  have   beem. 

Sweeter  than  e'er  you  spoke  them  do  they  come 
Again  with  finer  relish  to  my  mind 
Starved  on  your  absence.     False  surmise  is  numb. 
For  now  in  these  reliques  of  you  I  find 
The  smile  you  meant  when  rebel  lips  were  dumb, 
The  kind  words  agitation  made  unkind. 

[61] 


MARTYRS  TO  THE  MAN 

Innocent  thought,  romantic  dream,  and  happy,  unsuspicious  love, 

Three  comrades  of  my  youth, 

Three  sons  of  shining  Truth; 

Mine  eyes  beheld  them  hand  in  hand  treading  a  flowered  meadow-land, 
Singing  renown  and  fame  and  the  town  toward  which  they  came. 

In  azure  tunic,  golden  mail,  and  a  robe  that  bore  a  burning  heart, 

They  footed  through  the  daisies, 

Singing  their  Father's  praises, 

Till  high  above  them  dark  of  frown  arose  the  wall  of  the  Iron  Town. 
Ah,  then  they  glowed  elate,  and  strode  beneath  the  gate. 

But  scarcely  had  they  laughed  along  to  linger  in  the  market  square 

When  folk  from  stalls  and  booths 

Beset  the  shining  youths. 

They  haled  them  where  a  pillar  stood  black  with  smoke  and  red  with  blood. 
There,  for  no  guilt,  they  bound  them,  and  built  the  fagots  round  them. 

And  now  I  saw  my  martyred  boys  with  lips  aghast  and  frozen  eyes, 

Through  flames  of  writhing  fire 

Staring  across  their  pyre, 

While  burghers  of  the  Iron  Town  danced  all  like  mountebank  and  clown, 
By  smoke  made  scant  of  breath,  to  chant  the  fortunate  death 

Of  innocent  thought,  romantic  dream,  and  happy,  unsuspicious  love, 

As,  lapped  in  fiery  light, 

They  shrivelled  from  my  sight, 

And  dark,  flame-litten  figures  whirled  around  the  ruin  of  my  world. 
For,  now  these  three  were  sped,  in  me  my  youth  lay  dead. 

Yet,  thinning  as  the  smoke  dispersed,  the  heavy  ashes  of  the  pyre 

Heaved,  and  two  armored  hands 

Scattered  the  smoldering  brands. 

Then,  from  the  sacrificial  heap,  I  saw  a  stalwart  figure  leap, 
And  secret  dawn  and  wise  shone  in  his  steady  eyes. 

His  corselet  bore  a  blazing  star  set  in  a  murky  midnight  sky. 

His  either  hand  displayed 

A  lantern  and  a  blade. 

One  holds  the  guarded  flame  of  Doubt  no  wind  from  heaven  may  quite  blow  out. 
One  points  to  turn  the  blow  of  stern  Despair,  the  foe. 

The  burghers  of  the  Iron  Town  broke  up  their  dance  to  hear  his  cry: 

"Here  a  Man's  soul  stands  tried, 

Where  Youth  hath  darkly  died. 

I  bear  the  heavy  helm  of  years,  who  once  knew  neither  wounds  nor  fears, — 
And  comic-tragic  arms,  where  magic  glowed  the  charms 

"Of  innocent  thought,  romantic  dream,  and  happy,  unsuspicious  love! 
But  these  my  feres  be  dead. 
I  bear  their  hopes  instead." 

Then,  striding  through  the  crowd,  askance  the  eyes  of  all  refused  his  glance. 
Forth  from  their  gate  he  strode  where  Fate  made  straight  the  road. 

[62] 


THE  PARLOUS  THING 


The  villainous  tract  he  knew. 

Boulders  were  its  wear. 
Black  and  steely  blue 

Its  girth  in  the  low  moon-glare. 
Between  his  gauntlet  palms 

He  raised  his  good  sword  drawn: 
"Who  comes  this  night  to  ask  an  alms? 
Say  on,  sword,  say  on!" 

"First,  Beauty  radiant-bright; 

Second,  the  Fiend  in  red; 

Third,  with  Yourself  this  night  you  fight; 

And  that  is  all,"  it  said. 

Sudden  he  fell  adread. 

On  the  split  and  stubborn  ground 

His  proud  steed  pawed  again. 
False  Beauty,  without  sound 

Stood — as  she  dawns  on  men, 
Her  naked  body  dressed 

In  the  colored  mists  of  dawn.  .  .  . 
As  the  steel  he  drew  from  her  cloven  breast: 
"Say  on,  sword,  say  on!" 

"A  hard  thing,  that  to  meet, — 

Yet  well  you  held  the  field. 
The  Fiend  should  treat  at  your  mailed  feet. 

But  to  One  your  steel  must  yield!" 
To  ice  Ms  blood  congealed. 

His  charger's  mane  tossed  back, 
As  the  white  foam  flew  in  wrath. 

The  Fiend,  in  red  and  black, 
With  mockery  barred  the  path. 

Swift  as  a  snake!     At  grips 
Like  a  tiger  set  upon!   .  .  . 

He  wiped  dark  blood  from  his  sword's  blue  lips. 
"Say  on,  sword,  say  on!" 

"Trenchant!     But  feel  your  side 

Twined  by  the  Parlous  Thing, 
More  than  Derision  to  deride, 

Faster  than  flesh  to  cling!" 
Hissing  his  brain  did  sing. 


[63] 


THE  PARLOUS    THING 


The  Thing  came  flowingly 

Against  his  side,  all  warm! 
"Two  you  have  slain  for  fear  of  me, 

And  I  take  o'er  the  charm; 
For  I  am  the  fear  within  your  brain, 

The  weakness  in  your  arm, 
Your  Self  of  inmost  treachery,   lechery,  and  alarm! 

Such  were  ill  plight  to  know 

Between  the  dark  and  dawn. 
Struck  that  good  knight  his  final  blow? 

Shrunk  he  to  sob  and  fawn? 
Was  this  the  hour  of  overthrow? 

.  .  .  Say  on,  sword,  say  on! 


PATERNITY 


Not  only  women  dream  the  future's  child 
Or  children,  though  such  deep  desire  they  bear 
For  all  the  rich  rewards  of  motherhood, 
They  smile  in  travail;   though  each  girl  ungrown 
Who  sings  her  dolls  uncertain  lullabies 
Sees  infant  faces,   feels   soft  arms   that  cling, 
Hears  deep  within  the  nursery  of  her  heart 
A  medley  of  small  mirth  adorable, 
And,  as  she  grows,  mothers  all  things  she  loves, 
Lacking  the  little  head  against  her  breast 
And  yearning  for  it,  when  she  cannot  know 
Wherefore  she  yearns.    Yet  sometimes  to  a  man, 
Roughest  and  sternest  though  he  be  of  men, 
Shocked  into  strength  and  pondering  from  his  young 
Exuberance  and  easy  joy,  there  comes 
A  longing  that  convulses  all  his  soul; 
And,  standing  in  the  wind  against  some  dawn's 
Prospect  of  racing  cloud  and  lightening  sky, 
Or  hard-beset  in  battle  with  the  world 
Deep  in  the  city's  stridence,  or  at  pause 
Before  some  new-discovered  truth  of  life, 
Unwittingly  his  hands  go  out  to  touch, 
Hold  off,  and  scan  the  youth  of  him  that  was, 
Thrill  to  that  brighter  youth  it  is  decreed 
Each  father  shall  inherit  from  his  son. 
And,  if  his  hands  grope  blindly,  so  his  heart, 
To  hear  a  young  voice  at  his  shoulder  speak, 
Know  young,  elastic  strides  beside  his  own, 
Resolve  the  problems  of  an  unsullied  heart 
Flaming  to  his  for  counsel.     I  scarce-grown 
Into  iny  manhood,  hovering,  hovering  still 
Over  by  boyhood   (as  the  gravest,  oldest 
Of  men  doth  yet,  or  is  no  man  of  men), 
Felt  my  heart  tense,  and  but  a  noon  ago 
Strove  in  quick  torture — for  no  woman's  arms, 
No  woman's  eyes,  but  for  a  questioning  voice 
Beside  me,  and  a  sturdy  little  step 
In  rhythm  with  mine.    A  phantom  face  looked  up, 
Trusting,  round-eyed,  alive  with  curious  joy; 
And  all  my  being  yearned:     My  son!     My  son! 
[64] 


REMARKS  TO  THE  BACK  OF  A  PEW 


All  this  whining  and  repining! 

Oh  good  lack, 

All  this  blue-nosed,  dismal  wailing 
That  the  fount  of  faith  is  failing! 
Have  ye  all  gone  sick  and  ailing, 
Good  my  masters?  Give  me  back 
But  a  laugh  against  my  laughter, 

And  forget  a  little  while 
Your  much-harped-upon  "Hereafter" 

In  a  smile! 

From  your  pigeon-toed  religion, 

Lord  deliver 

One  who  never  saw  his  Savior 
As  a  "model  of  behavior," 
But  a  man  of  might,  who  gave  your 
Creeds  full  many  a  text  to  shiver 
Into  bits  your  gravest  thesis 

And  your  dearest  dogma's  blight. 
You  can  thank  your  own  paresis 

If   I  'm    right. 

While  you  're  moaning  of  "atoning 

For  our  sins," 

Where  old  women  sniff  and  mutter, 
There  's  bright  sunlight  through  the  shutter. 
How  the  wood-birds  sing  and  flutter 
Round  the  church!     A  wind  begins 
In  the  ivy-leaves,  all  glistening 
With  the  early  morning  sun. 
"Saith  the  preacher — "  .  .  .  I  'm  not  listening. 
Have  you  done? 

You  're  the  cynics,  with  your  clinics 

On  the  soul! 

While  you  fumble  facts  and  rumble, 
Is  it  easy  to  be  humble, 
When  I  hear,  through  all  your  mumble, 
God's  own  anthems  rise  and  roll 
Round  the  outcast  Unforgiven 
Yester-morning  damned  by — you!  — 
As  the  highest  gates  of  Heaven 

Pass  them  through! 

Here  's  my  severance  from  your  reverance 

For  the  smug. 

While  the  human  's  so  endearing, 
While  all  nature  is  revering 
One  glad  God,  with  naught  of  "fearing," 
Shall  I  rock  myself,  and  hug 

[65] 


REMARKS    TO    THE   BACK   OF  A   PEW 


All  my  "goodness"  safe  inside  me, 

'Twixt  four  walls  and  once  a  week? 
God  Himself  would  first  deride  me, 
Saying,  "Seek!" 

Oh,  what  psalter  round  the  altar 

Of  the  East, 

With  wild  dawn  the  winds  upchoir! 
With  what  prayer  the  sunset's  pyre 
Smokes  to  heaven!     And  what  desire 
For  pure  Truth  that  pale,  sad  priest 
Of  blue  heaven,  the  moon,  illumines 
When  the  candle  stars  burn  bright! 
What  sweet  dreams  God  sends  for  omens 

Through  the  night! 

There,  as  ever,  I  shall  never 

Cease  to  kneel, 

In  God's  true  church,  life, — adoring 
All  its  wonder,  and  imploring, 
Of  His  grace,  for  joy  upsoaring 
O'er  all  pangs  that  hurt  and  heal. 
Teach  me  such  Thy  true  salvation, 

God  of  strength  through  joy  set  free, 
As  Thou  meant'st  from  the  creation 
It  should  be! 


RITUAL 

Lord  God,  what  may  we  think  of  Thee, 

Save  that  in  stars  we  drink  of  Thee, 

Save  that  in  the  abundance  of  Thy  sunlight  we  have  seen 

Thine  excellent  intention; 

And  Thy  marvelous  invention 
In  great  and  little  living  things  and  all  the  grades  between? 

Lord  God,  what  may  we  pray  to  Thee 
Who  know  our  hearts  give  way  to  Thee 
Surely  at  last  in  secret  depths,  though  protest  long  denies, 

And  that  to  live  is  wonder 

With  worlds  above  and  under 
Unreached  of  any  mortal  heart,  blurred  to  all  mortal  eyes? 

Lord  God,  the  fitting  praise  to  Thee 
Rather  would  seem  to  raise  to  Thee 
Only  pure  honesty  of  mind,  waiting  Thy  stalwart  will; 

Like  as  the  hills  believe  Thee, 

Like  as  the  seas  receive  Thee, 
Like  as  the  trees  whose  rustlings  cease, — who  hear  Thee  and  are  still! 

[66] 


MALIGNED  MORTALITY 


In  upper  space,  in  the  nether  abyss, 
'Twixt  which  our  Earthly  spheroid  drifts, 
Rapture  there  is  and  torment  there  is— 
But  never  the  mortal  gifts. 

As  in  upper  azure,  in  nether  night 
Where  the  wicked  are  flayed  for  their  souls'  rebirth, 
They  know  pain  as  the  virtuous  know  delight — 
But  both  have  need  of  Earth. 

When  the  virtuous  grow  too  good  for  God, 
When  the  spirit  of  sin  seems  quenched,  not  changed 
To  a  purer  and  braver  flame — His  nod 
Shows  them  the  Earth  they  ranged. 

Then,  while  demons  lean  on  their  goads,  the  bad 
With  tormented  eyes  upturn  their  sight 
To  the  vivid  human  life  they  had, 
Passing  above  their  night. 

Then  the  cherubs  point  from  Heaven  to  praise, 
And  the  flustered  spirits  may  not  pray, 
But  peer  from  on  high,  and  must  mark  the  ways 
Of  such  folk  as  once  were  they. 

How  salutary  for  blessed  and  cursed, 
Where  goodness  and  sin  are  so  much  discussed! 
For  most  of  Heaven  was  just— at  first— 
This  humorous  human  dust! 

And  most  of  Hell  dreamed  noble  strife, 
On  Earth,  with  such  thieves  as  Time  and  Fate. 
Re-viewing  the  dauntlessness  of  life 
They  feel  less  desolate! 

So,  though  many  a  creed  discount  her  worth, 
Here  is  a  dream  for  the  dead  of  night: 
That  Hell  takes  heart  at  our  mother  Earth 
And  that  Heaven  does  her  right. 


[67] 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  LOVE 

"  These  bloodless  conventionalists  in  modern  love." 

—  The  Advocate  of  Passion. 

My  love  walks  scatheless  through  the  fire. 

Yea,  in  the  furnace  of  desire, 

Like  its  white  core  irradiate 

With  impulse  strong  and  passionate, 

My  love  uplifts  a  gloried  face. 

Nor  angels  fail  me  in  that  place — 

Such  angels  of  supreme  desire 

As  walked  by  Shadrach  in  the  fire! 

Before  the  golden  shape  of  Lust 

I  saw  men  prostrate  in  the  dust; 

Homage  like  that  of  days  long  gone 

On  Dura's  plain  by  Babylon. 

Their  wailing  grows.     Their  breath  comes  sharp 

When  sounds  the  shawm  or  twangs  the  harp, 

When  cries  the  herald,  "Lord  is  Lust! 

Bow  down  and  worship  in  the  dust!" 

The  laughing  fiend  who  bids  this  thing, 

Like  as  of  old  that  evil  king, 

Hath  heard  by  night  and  heard  by  morn 

The  challenge  of  mine  utter  scorn. 

Therefore  from  out  his  furnace  I 

Must  lift  my  hated  voice  to  cry 

The  passion  that  transcends  this  thing 

Wrought  by  Hell's  old  and  evil  king. 

My  love  walks  scatheless   through  the  fire. 

The  angel  of  supreme  desire. 

Stooped  toward  me  through  the  thickening  flame. 

The  utter  glory  of  his  name 

Goes  through  me  like  a  piercing  sword. 

Purity's  passion  is  my  lord, 

Fashioned  of  far  more  pulsing  fire 

Than  gods  of  all  abased  desire. 

He  looks  aghast,  their  king,  nor  dares 
To  hear  me  chant  his  quick  despairs- 
Great  paeans  that  shake  Heaven's  glowing  hall, 
Whence  angels  all  antiphonal 
Sound  harps  of  sudden  storming  bliss 
Shaken  from  Heaven's  heart,  that  is 
Most  passionate  with  love  that  dares 
Every  disaster— all  despairs! 

Cleaving  to  one  in  whom  it  flowers, 
Higher  and  greater  its  glory  towers; 
The  passion  of  love's  purity 
Reaching  to  Heaven  in  verity. 
[68] 


THE    TRIUMPH   OF  LOVE 


Before  their  idols,  smeared  with  dust, 
Grovel  the  little  slaves  of  lust; 
But  crowned  with  red  immortal  flowers 
Even   to   God's   height  Love's   triumph   towers! 

Laughing  for  Love's  enduring  name, 

This  have  I  seen  who  walked  the  flame 

And   step   from  out  the   furnace-blast 

Unscorched,  unscathed.     His  face  aghast, 

The  laughing  fiend  can  work  no  fear 

With  quivering  whispers  in  mine  ear 

Of  "passion."     Fool!     Round  pure  Love's  name 

Burns  the  supreme,  surpassing  flame! 


"ALWAYS  I  KNOW  YOU  ANEW" 

I  press  my  hands  on  my  eyes 
And  will  that  you  come  to  me. 
Your   semblances   shimmer  and   rise; 
Yet  'tis  never  your  self  I  see, 
Never  the  exquisite  grace 
And  the  bright,  still  flame  of  you. 
So,  when  I  meet  you  face  to  face, 
Always  I  know  you  anew! 

Faint  visions  I  saw,  instead 

Of  your  brows  direct  and  wise, 

Of  the  little  lilt  of  your  head 

And  your  dark-lashed,  sky-clear  eyes, 

Of  the  soft  brown  braids  demure, 

The  poise  as  of  quiet  light, 

The   perfect  profile,  sweet  and  pure, 

Never   I  dream  you  aright. 

And  new  in  endless  ways, 

By  your  blessed  heart  unplanned, 

It  is  mine  to  surprise  each  sweeter  phase, 

Adore  you,  and  understand; 

For  through  every  delicious  change  in  you 

Truth  burns  with  a  clear,  still  flame; 

And,   though  always   I   know  you  anew, 

Always  I  find  you  the  same! 


[69] 


PANORAMA 


Street  sights!     Street  sounds!     The  wonder  of  it  grows. 
Here  in  the  midst  of  Babel  I  would  wait 

And  mark  the  eddying  throes 
And  labors  of  this  maelstrom  fed  by  Fate. 

Bright  color  interweaves, — 
No  sober  staidness  and  no  calm  design. 

Here,  with  the  pomp  and  play  of  afternoon  on  autumn  leaves, 
High  lights  and  vivid  colors  glow  and  shine. 

The  gray-massed  masonry  strikes  a  dull  leaden  note 
Above  the  crawling  crowds — yet,  as  in  dream, 
Past  walls  of  many  a  golden  cavern-throat 
Uninterrupted  pours  the  motley  stream. 

And  faces  call  me.     Heavy  brows,  loud  tongues, 
Or  pale  pastels  of  sharp  despair  flash  by. 

Ladder  of  life,  that  sinks  its  lower  rungs 
Deep  in  the  anguish  of  humanity! 

Romance  with  beggary  at  shoulder-press, 
Momus  and  Artemis  in  step  to  tunes 
That  flaunt  from  tawdry  arcades  of  ingress 
'Mid   roars  from   life's  buffoons! 

An  old  sad  man,  drooped  with  a  weight  of  thought, 

Rasps  at  a  violin  in  plaintive  key. 
There  was  an  age  when  the  nine  maids  were  brought 
Not  low  so  easily! 

Buildings,  the  hopes  you  hide,  the  hard-won  joys, 
Your  glory  of  toil,  dim  now  your  grimmer  guise. 
Rank  upon  rank  your  martyr  host  deploys 
To    daily   sacrifice, 

But  see!     As  even-change  turns  gold  to  gray 
With  sudden  hush,  here — even  here — the  calm 
Voice  o'er  man's  tumult  of  the  end  of  day 
Thrills  like  a  radiant  psalm. 

Life's  mire  hides  pearls, — aye,  pearls  of  secret  splendor! 

There  a  drab,  home-bound  laborer  stands  erect 
Before  a  fire-shot  spire,  and  worn  eyes  render 

Homage  the  calloused  heart  can  scarce  suspect. 

I  heard  a  work-girl  singing  to  her  lover 
What  doubts,  what  dreams  there  are; 
And  then — man's  courage  streamed  the  wild  skies  over, 
And  flamed  from  every  star! 


[70] 


THE  FLAME-BRIDE 


O'er  the  red  hearth  of  Time 

Leans   the   fire-maker. 
Men's  lives  are  fagots  bound 
That  serve  this  fagot  breaker, 
Bowed  o'er  his  flame-bride, 

Breathing  till  he  wake  her. 

His  head  blots  out  the  stars. 

He  leans  across  all  heaven. 
Earth  steams  up  with  prayer. 
Sunset  pleads   replevin. 
Men  are  the  fagot  fuel 

Bound   in   his   bavin. 

He  feeds  the  fire  of  Time 

Whose  flames  are  bliss  and  weeping. 
He  leans  across  the  world 
When  the  world  is  sleeping, 
Fanning  with  soft  breath 

The  watch-fire  he  is  keeping. 

But  still  his  flame-bride  sleeps 
Whose  raiment  is  of  wonder. 

Faint  flickerings  show  her  face. 

She  stirs  in  sleep   thereunder, 

Until   she  rise  in  lightnings 

And  shake  the  world  with  thunder. 

Enormous  on  the  night, 

The  shadow  of  her  lover 
Bows  across  voids  of  space 
And  feeds  the  flames  above  her; 
Men's  lives  his  fagot  fuel, 

His  passion  strong  to  move  her. 

He  kneels  before  the  hearth 
Of  Time,  beyond   all   seeing. 

Each  heart-beat  of  his  heart 

He  breathes  into  her  being. 

The  small  red  flames  and  gold 
He  fans,  their  smoke   upfleeing. 

In  the  accomplished  time 

Of  man's  long  desolation, 
At  last  her  waking  sigh 
Shall   pulse   through  every  nation. 
The  flames  shall  soar,  and  roar  her 

Risen   o'er   all   creation! 

O'er  the  red  hearth  of  Time 

Leans  the  fire-maker, 
Men's  lives  the  fagots  bound 
That  serve  this  fagot  breaker, 
Justice  his  flame-born  bride, 

Still  slumbering  till  he  wake  her! 
[71] 


UMBRAE  PUELLULARUM 


The  memories  of  little  maids 
Are  rosy  round  this  gray  old  earth. 
Heroes  its  glories,  these  the  shades 
Of  tender  evenings,  sunrise  mirth. 

The  blue  wild  lilacs  on  the  dunes 
Nod  breeze-blown  toward  a  lustred  sea. 
The  seashore's  faint-hummed  morning  tunes 
Sing  little  maidens,  young  and  free. 

The  sun-blaze  on  the  shifting  blue 
Shimmers  a  phantom  down  the  sands 
Where  Phoenix'  daughter  strays  anew 
Trailing  arbutus  in  her  hands; 

Yet  not  as  'neath  those  cliffs  whereunder 
Her  children  playmates  shrank  and  cried 
When,  bellowing  o'er  the  breakers'  thunder, 
The  white  bull  threshed  the  rushing  tide. 

Dawn  on  such  heights  as  Tabor's  mountain 
Shows  a  child  Deborah  glad  and  free; 
Rainbows  on  every  sobbing  fountain, 
A  tearless  bright  Callirrhoe. 

I  seek  not  one  as  Night's  sad  daughter, 
Nor  one  in  Sisera's  camp  on  high 
When  sunset  flames  with  swords  of  slaughter 
And  bannered  armies  mass  the  sky. 

Only  as  little  maidens,  gaily 
At  play  by  wood  and  waterfall, 
Hillside  and  sea,  I  dream  them  daily 
And  hear  their  happy  voices  call. 

Their  songs  rejoice  when  morn   rejoices. 
They  murmur  home  through  evening's  shades; 
The  cherished  ghosts  of  children's  voices, 
The  memories  of  little  maids! 


[72] 


NIGHT  WATCHERS 

"How  goes  the  night,  Faun?"     Lo,  the  woodland  crier's  eyes 

Piercing  through  the  velvet  dark  with  answer  like   a  jest: 
"Hours  three  to  bright  dawn!     Still  the  white  owl  flies 

Blundering  where  the  rabbits  hide,  cruel  on  his  quest." 
Then  the  running  hoofs  that  spurn 
Clinging  vine   and   heavy   fern. 

Dryads  stir  in  rich,  rare  dreaming,  with  the  sorrow-dreaming  trees. 
"Remember,  remember  the  golden-prowed  embarkments,  the  old  Grecian  glory, 
the   ships  that  ploughed  their  seas!" 

"How  goes  the  night,  Faun?"     Feet  that  pause  and  breath  that  shakes — 

Rustle  in  the  covert  as  he  gasps  to  ease  his  side. 
"Hours  twain  to  bright  dawn!     Only  now  the  snail  wakes, 

Trailing   phosphorescence    down    the    leaf-track   he    must   glide." 
Then  his  running  hoofs  that  take 
Crackling  hurdle  of  the  brake. 

Dryads  sigh  with  tender  dreamings,  as  the  tall  trees  sigh  with  years. 
"Remember,  remember  the  slow,  enchanted  dawning,  the  white  and  vestal  altar, 
and    olden    lovers'    tears!" 

"How  goes  the  night,  Faun?"     Dim  he  halts  beyond  the  copse. 

A  glimmer  of  horn  tips.     A  face  but  half  descried. 
"Hours  one  to  bright  dawn!     Wane  the  stars.     The  sun  drops 

Cloak  and  mantle  from  him,  and  o'er  mountains  conies  his  stride." 
Then  his  weary  hoofs  that  fade 
With  light  patter  down  the  glade. 

Dryads  blush  to  secret  waking  as  the  trees  emerge  from  night. 
"But,  mortal,  remember,  we  weave  you  spells  by  starshine  to  break  your  heart 
at  dawn-time,  and  vanish  with  the  light! 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  FALSE  PROPHET 


How  strange!     No  light  within  the  darkened  room 

No  lamp  to  shed  his  hinted  light,  and  spill 

A  flickering  welcome  on  this  icy  sill 

Where  my  hands  rest,  reaching  from  out  the  gloom? 

None!     All  I  see  is  shadowy  as  a  tomb. 

The  glass  against  my  forehead  strikes  a  chill 

Straight  through  my  brain.     The  window  glimmers  still 

As  cold  as  steel,  as  obdurate  as  doom. 

Ah,  outer  gardens  of  my  prophet's  mind, 

What  words  ye  flowered!     Twas  there  I  plucked  such  healing 
Closelier  I  circled  round  his  soul,  to  find 
Its  radiant  inmost  home;  this  night  came  stealing 
Before  his  spirit's  house, — and  know  it — blind!  — 
Blind  of  all  light,  empty  and  unrevealing! 
[73] 


THE  WINNING  OF  POMONA 


Over  the  island  of  enchantment  came 
A  summer  breeze  that  morning  breathing  myrtle 
And  musk,  and  noonday  steeped  the  hills  in*  sun. 
The  hillside  orchards  glowed.    Most  glowed  that  one 
The  warm,  delicious  wood-nymph  made  to  flame 
With  lustrous  fruits,  where  every  plot  was  fertile. 

A  stirring  in  the  pleasant  wood  was  heard. 

The  bees  about  Sylvanus  teased.     His  robe, 

An  undressed  doe's-pelt,  lay  about  his  knees. 

Low  overhead  a  yellow-breasted  bird 

Pecked  grapes,  split,  spilt  each  bursting  purple  globe, 

And  chirruped  to  the  foliage-rustling  trees. 

It  was  a  day  of  golden  distances, 

Of  floating  echoes,  of  vague  sweet  alarms. 

The  wanderer  felt  a  hush  of  startled  laughter, 

Passing  some  covert;  and  the  hint  ran  after, 

Twitching  his  heart,  that  in  pooled  silences 

Flushed  dryads  bathed,  and  dried,  and  sunned  their  charms. 

The  sea  lay  dreaming  round  that  pleasant  isle, 
Holding  it  to  her  bosom's  rise  and  fall, 
Her  treasure-coffer  for  all  heaven  to  bless; 
As  some  enchanted  lady,  fixed  of  smile, 
Blue  slopes  of  mountains  for  her  couch's  pall, 
Fingers  a  casket  of  mysteriousness. 

Vineyards  and  orchards,  all  imperial-stained, 
Spread  over  open  hillsides;   greenwood  clomb 
Most  darkly  green  about  them  and  above. 
From  tawny  sands,  rock-prisoned,  surfy-maned, 
Lifted  the  land's  low  contours  'gainst  a  dome 
Of  royal  blue,  bound  in  the  arms  of  love. 

Midway  the  central  mount,  hung,  marble-walled, 

Pomona's  intimate  close;  her  fruits  and  grains 

Such  as  nor  Greece,  Phoenicia,  Araby 

Nor  Palestine  might  boast.    Thrice-fortunate  she! 

A  virgin,  as  by  Artemis  enthralled 

To  minister  pale  flames  in  paler  fanes. 

Slant  eyes  had  peered,  slit  ears  pricked  o'er  the  cope 

That  guarded  her,  shagged  goat-thighs  clung  and  climbed 

The  boles  without,  to  spy  upon  her  there 

Binding  weak  shoots,  trending  each  sapling's  slope, 

Pruning  (that  infant  satyrs  pantomimed), 

Musing,  most  busied,  lilting  unaware. 


[74] 


THE    WINNING    OF  POMONA 


For  many  had  wooed  her. 
Love  for  her  loveliness 
Drew  them,  bliss-tortured 
Here  to  her  orchard. 
Woodlands  pursued   her. 
Leafage  and  grasses 
Fluttered,   "She   passes!" 
Pan  and  all  Cyprus 
Knelt  when  they  viewed  her. 

For  her  lips'  blossom, 
Ease  of  her  bosom, 
Clasp  of  her  bloom, 
Fauns  wandered  madly, 
Satyrs  piped  sadly. 
Laughing  and  lissom 
Wandered  she  gladly; 
Sunshine  and  burgeoning, 
Subtle  perfume! 

Oh,  her  dear  laughter, 
Tender — imperious! 
Oh,  her  sweet,  serious 
Moods  flowing  after! 
Little  unnoted 
Curls  of  her  tresses 
Drew  their  devoted 
Hearts  to  their  lips. 
Oh,  her  kind,  careful 
Duties  despairful! 
The  birds  jewel-throated 
She  sang  to  eclipse! 

Ripe-graped,  red-appled, 

Yellowly    dappled 

Of  spilth  from  the  sun 

Lay  the  green  clover 

Her  blithe  feet  passed  over. 

Here  in  the  orchard, 

Dryadly   nurtured, 

Fleet  would  she  run; 

Tenderly  bend  her, 

Lightly  ascend  her 

For  ripenings  begun. 

Oh,  how  those  peering 

Pined  for  her  nearing! 

Loving  nor  fearing, 

Still  knew  she  none. 

ii. 

Noon-day  swooned  to  afternoon. 

Open  vested, 

Rosy   breasted, 

Still  Pomona  toiled  to  prune, 
Dress  and  tend  her  vines  and  trees. 

Stealthy   stepped   the   shadows   overt. 
Dear  desire 
Quick  with  fire 

Pierced  Vertumnus  in  the  covert, 
Fanned  him  like  a  desert  breeze. 

[75] 


THE   WINNING   OF  POMONA 

Oft  with  hay-band,  goad,  or  ladder, 

Role-assuming, — 

To  that  blooming 

Close,   that  bloomed   no   lovelier,   gladder 
Fruit   or   flower   than    was   she,— 

Passed   as   husbander   or   reaper, 

Had    he    entered, 

Passion  centered 

Not  on  trellis,  weed,  or  creeper, 
But  his  heart's  divinity! 

Summer  saddened.    Life  shrunk  withered. 
Sung  nor  bloomed   the  silence   round  him. 
Would  she  stoop  if  thus  she  found  him? 
Lift  him  to   her   love  clear-ethered  ? 

Strong  and  young  and  piteous-proudly 
Rose  he  for  a  last  disguising, 
One  last  cast  for  love's  surprising! 
Yet  despair  knelled  long  and  loudly. 

Afternoon   was   dusking  there. 

Orioles 

From  sprays  and  boles 
Lyricked  to  the  blushing  air. 
Red  and  orange  burned  the  boughs 

Laden  with  their  clustered  fruit. 

Flushed   and   spent, 

In   drowsed  content 
Heard   Pomona   that  low   suit 
Of  the  crone  before  her  house! 

Oped  she  to  the  hobbling  one. 

Tapping    staff 

And   croaking  laugh 
Entered.     And   the  deed  was  done! 
Ancient  and  gray-haired  disguise 

Bent  Vertumnus'  youth  and  grace. 

"List,  my  dear, 

A  tale  to  hear!" 
Yet  he  dares  not  raise  his  face! 
Yet  he  dares  not  meet  her  eyes! 

"You,  they  say,  have  scorned  to  favor 
Many  a  wistful  woodland  lover!" 
Thrushes  trilled  their  last  above  her. 
Now  must  Artemis  stoop  to  save  her! 

"One  before  them  all  is  truest. 
He  is  trueness'  self  however! 
Nay,  I  fable  my  endeavor! 
Dream  awhile,   oh   eyes   the   bluest!" 

in. 

"It  is  a  tale  of  Teucer's  time. 
There  lived   a  lovely   lady   then 
Who  grew  unto  her  lovely  prime 
Not  unbesought   of  noble  men. 

[76] 


THE    WINNING    OF  POMONA 


"Iphis,  a  humble  reaper,  fell 

Before  her  civil  looks  and  sweet. 

His  heart  went  lashed  'twixt  Heaven  and  Hell. 

Thus   Iphis  loved  Anaxarete! 

"She,   like  the   steel   of  pruning-hooks, 
Was  pure  and  bright,  was  keen  and  cold, 
And  went  untroubled  by  the  looks 
That  many  gave  her,  shamed  or  bold. 

"He  sued  her  nurse.     He  hung  with  fears 
Door-garlands  at  her  portal  barred. 
He  wrote  on  tablets  bright  with  tears 
His  pleas  for  her  supreme  regard. 

"She  mocked  him  from  her  turret  stark. 
She  laughed  with  laughter  cold  and  sweet, 
With  eyebrows  lifted  in  remark, 
The  cruel-chaste  Anaxarete! 

"She  called  her  maids  to  mock  with  her. 
She  haughtied  by  him  in  the  street. 
Her  heart,  nor  fire  nor  flood  might  stir. 
Had  you  a  heart,  Anaxarete? 

"To    the  gate-post   with   garlands   graced 
He  noosed  a  rope,  his  head  within: 
'Here  lives  the  chastest  of  the  chaste. 
To  love  her  she  mistook  for  sin!' 

"'Here  then  you  conquer!'  forth  he  flung. 
'But  I  had  crawled  to  kiss  your  feet! 
Here  is  the  final  garland  hung. 
Have  joy  of  it,  Anaxarete!' 


"Down  mournful  streets  the  funeral  passed, 
The  bier  borne  on  by  shuffling  men. 
Unsmiling,  from  her  tower,  at  last 
She   looked — and   flinched — and   looked  again. 

"The  dead  face  had  a  bitter  smile. 

Her  maidens  held  her  from  the  street. 

She   looked — and   flinched — and   looked  the  while. 

Look  well  again,  Anaxarete! 

"Her  heart  within  her  turned  to  ice. 
(Only  a  little  change  was  meet! ) 
Her  blood  was  frozen  in  a  trice. 
She  stood  of  stone — Anaxarete! 

"Still  in  the  porch  at  Salamis 
All  men  may  see  her  calm  endure, 
As  fair  as  one  I  wot  of  is, 
A  marble  statue,  chill  and  pure. 

"Passion  is  base  and  Love  's  a  fool 
Who  pipes  to   fancies  fond  as  fleet. 
It  is  most  stately  to  be  cool. 
And  cool  you  are,  Anaxarete! 


[77] 


THE   WINNING    OF  POMONA 

"But  oh,  with  dawning  to  leap  up, 
To  share  the  sunset  beat  for  beat, 
To  drain  gray  twilight's  crystal  cup! 
Too  cool  you  are,  Anaxarete! 

"Comrade  to  them  is  only  Love, 
A  film  of  sense,  a  golden  heat! 
Are  these  things  now  discerned  of 
Your  perfect  calm,  Anaxarete?" 

His  voice  died  like  a  silver  river  dying 
In  drifted  sands.    Her  heart  had  wisdom  then. 
Pomona  chilled,  and  warmed,  and  chilled,  replying 
To  this  one  man  of  men. 

And  to  the  lovely  lifting  of  her  eyes 
That  listened,  to  her  mounting  trouble's  flame 
That  burned  her  brows,  dropping  his  gray  disguise 
Vertumnus  spoke  her  name. 

He  stood  like  alabaster  and  like  fire 
Upheld  before  her,  for  the  sunset-light 
Lay  round  them,  and  the  stars  shone  like  a  tiar 
On  the  cool  brows  of  night. 

The  trees  would  darken,  and  the  sunset's  river 
Shrink  to  the  sources  whence  its  glory  came. 
But  would  he  stand  before  her  eyes  forever, 
Her  lover,  crowned  with  flame. 

"Eros!"  she  cried,  facing  the  splendid  heaven, 
This  is  the  hour  for  which  my  life  was  made! 
His  arms  hold  body,  soul, — my  orchards  even! 
And  I  am  not  afraid! 


THE  LOOSED  DRYAD 


From  the  bole  of  the  oak  tree  I  start!     There  he  bound  me — 
The  wizard  of  summer.     With  the  dim  woods  around  me, 
From  covert  to  covert  fare  my  feet,  bronzely  glancing 
To  the  sway  and  the  swing  and  the  lure  of  my  dancing! 

How  the  watching  eyes  gleam,  for  the  wood-folk  awaken! 
Now  each  creeper  and  vine  stem  and  root  weft  is  shaken 
With  the  mystery  of  night  and  the  wakened  wings  starting, 
With  the  fever  of  meeting,  with  the  sorrow  of  parting! 

From  the  wood  to  the  hill,  from  the  hill  to  the  meadow, 
Through  the  moonlight  we  gleam,  now  in  sight,  now  in  shadow; 
And  our  veins  run  their  will  and  our  hearts  sing  it  over- 
Velvet  night  and  the  stars  and  the  whispering  clover! 

[78] 


THE   LOOSED   DRYAD 


From  the  hill  to  the  wood,  silent  flicker,  hushed  laughter! 
Ah,  the  surge  of  the  dance  and  the  brown  hair  blown  after! 
Now  faster,  now  faster,  now  higher  and  higher 
Flit  the  feet,  beat  the  pulses,  with  autumn  afire! 

To  the  bole  of  the  oak.  .  .  .  Ah,  belovSd,  unbind  me! 
I  am  lost  in  the  tree  where  no  sunrise  may  find  me. 
Fades  the  night  to  its  light,  sinks  the  passion  to  weeping. 
Sunrise  kindles  the  east,  and  the  woodland  is  sleeping! 


THWARTED  UTTERANCE 


Why  should  my  clumsy  speech  so  fall  astray, 
To  uncouth  jargon  of  the  every-day 
Turn  each  fit  word  and  phrase 

I  treasured  for  your  praise? 

Discoveries  I  won  to  from  afar, 

All  the  rare  things  you  are — nor  know  you  are,— 

In  Orient  offering 

I  haste  to  you  to  bring. 

I  think  to  kneel  and  spread  on  cloths  of  dream 
The  beautiful,  the  priceless  things  you  seem; 
Perfume  and  precious  stone, 

That  you  be  shown  your  own. 

Prince  of  my  vision-palace,  I  would  call 

Your  name  through  trumpets  down  its  central  hall, 

And  the  rapt  choral  praise 

Before  your  dai's  raise; 

And  you  should  see,  should  hear,  be  glad,  and  smile 
That  I  so  love  you.     Ah,  but  all  the  while 
I  may  not  show  nor  teach 

Save  through  my  paupered  speech! 

Beggar  in  guise,  who  am  so  rich  at  heart 
Where  you  have  set  your  pure  white  shrine  apart 
And  keep  your  cherished  state 
Dear  and  immaculate, 

How  should  you  know  or  hear  me,  when  my  tongue 
Turns  a  dull  rebel  and  doth  ready  wrong 
To  thoughts  my  dreams  repeat?— 

Perhaps  too  proud,  too  sweet! 


[79] 


EMERGENCY 


I  've  born  it  out.    There  was  n't  much  to  bear 
By  your  own  tenets,  but  there  was  for  me — 
A  flaming  onslaught,  cohorts  furiously 
Charging  the  ramparts,  fearful  thunders  booming, 
Lightning  and  holocaust,  and  Terror  looming 
With  black  war-towers  on  the  skyline  there! 

You  saw  not  even  a  gnat  to  make  one  wince 

While  your  own  buoyant  thoughts  beat  up  the  blue. 

Let  me  be  glad  of  that.     The  happier  you! 

I  found  myself  alone  to  face  disaster 

Through  age-long  seconds.     While  your  pulse  beat  faster 

For  mirth,  my  own — stopped  dead,  a  moment  since. 

Then,  at  my  elbow — and  whole  worlds  away — 
You  turned,  and  I  was  snatching  at  my  breath 
After  a  sudden  bout  with  worse  than  death, 
With  worse  than  beasts  of  Ephesus,  uprisen 
One  moment  from  my  heart  that  is  their  prison. 
I  bore  it  out.    That's  all  there  is  to  say. 

They  flash  unwarning  on  our  dozing  acts, 

The  angel  or  the  fiend.     It  seems  to  me 

There  's  nothing  too  sublime  for  Man  to  be, 

In  such   clear  moments, — naught  too  foully  crawling! 

What  "self"  is  most  our  own,  when  this  appalling 

Apocalypse  lights  up  the  inmost  facts? 

Something  is  changed,  even  though  one  drops  back 
In  the  next  instant  to  the  old  routine, 
Forgets  the  risk,  and  is,  as  he  has  been, 
The  slowly-trailing,  patient  slug  of  Time, 
Neither  contemptible  nor  yet  sublime, 
Inching  with  pain  along  the  beaten  track. 

Something  is  changed!     The  mind  paints  heavens  and  hells. 

And  I,  their  dizzy  colors  in  my  brain, 

Wonder  just  what  is  "sane"  and  what  "insane," 

And  what  one  can  be  sure  of — where  we  're  master 

Of  our  own  triumphs  or  our  own  disaster. 

But  that's  enough.     Let's  talk  of  something  else! 


[80] 


SCAMPS  OF  ROMANCE 


We're  off  across  the  hills  today  with  merriment  agog 
With  pipe  and  timbrel  ribboned  gay,  with  fiddle-scrape  and  doe 
Then,  Nolly  Goldsmith,  here's  to  thee!     Send  Villon's  soul  no  ill! 
But  all  hail  that  Prince  of  Vagabonds,  Sir  John  Maundeville! 

Oh,  Sir  John  Maundeville,  Sir  John  Maundeville, 
Saw  more  Golcondas  in  the  west  than  e'er  another  will! 
Brave  Marco  Polo  pales  to  naught,  Aladdin's  boast  is  still 
Before  the  gallant  glory  of  Sir  John  Maundeville! 

So  we  march — tramp!  tramp! — and  the  ringing  of  our  tread 
Hales  forth  the  highway  swaggerers  of  lusty  times  long  dead. 
When  so  the  glad  world's  purple  clad,  it 's  hail  the  romance  scamp 
With  the  zesting  of  our  jesting,  and  our  march— tramp!  tramp! 


n. 


There  's  Spindleshanks  and  Bonfire-head  and  trolling  Heneree, 
And  each  as  mad  a  braggart  bred  as  any  age  may  see. 
There's  castles  in  each  wind-piled  cloud  and  Spain  just  o'er  the  hill 
And,  for  best  of  all  romancers,  there's  Sir  John  Maundeville! 

Oh,  Sir  John  Maundeville,  Sir  John  Maundeville! 
^Eneas  Sylvius,  go  up,  and,  Hakluyt,  rest  you  still; 
Cathay,  Damascus,  Lamary,  and  Persia  shall  fulfil 
The  magic  of  the  legends  of  Sir  John  Maundeville! 


in 


Come,  hydra  of  the  Lernean  slough!     Promethean  vulture,  come! 

The  charms  that  we  have  learned  for  you  shall  strike  your  terrors  dumb 

The  ghost  of  Raleigh  gapes  askance;  he  takes  our  mirth  so  ill. 

And  Pliny  louts  his  bonnet  to  Sir  John  Maundeville! 

Oh,  Sir  John  Maundeville,  Sir  John  Maundeville! 
Of  Noah's  Ark  and  Hills  o'  Gold  he  '11  spin  you  yarns  until 
The  Chan  of  rich  Cathay  's  your  slave,  and  Caffolos  is  shrill 
Singing  the  lofty  praises  of  Sir  John  Maundeville! 


IV. 


We  know  the  wild  chimaeric  herds — Aspis,  Leviathan, 
And  all  the  fabled  beasts  and  birds  were  since  the  world  began. 
The  Solan  Geese  flop  from  their  trees;   yon  crawls  the  Cuckodrili- 
And  all  because  we  read  about  Sir  John  Maundeville! 

Oh,  Sir  John  Maundeville,  Sir  John  Maundeville, 
From  Malabar  to  Tartary  they  marvel  at  you  still. 
Old  Aldrovandus  drops  a  tear  in  envy  fit  to  kill 
Because  we  sing  the  praises  of  Sir  John  Maundeville. 

v. 

We  're  off  across  the  hills  today  with  merriment  agog, 
With   pipe   and  timbrel   ribboned   gay,   with   fiddle-scrape   and   clog. 
And  in  our  pack  we'll  bring  you  back  (!'  faith,  we  swear  we  will!) 
Mad  tales  and  lays  your  ghost  shall  praise,  Sir  John  Maundeville. 

[81] 


CAMPS    OF    ROMANCE 


Oh,  Sir  John  Maundeville,  Sir  John  Maundeville, 
The  world  that  gaped  at  romance  then  shall  gape  at  romance  still. 
There's  portents  in  each  autumn  leaf, — Vale  Parlous  o'er  the  hill, — 
And  our  jolly  dreamland  captain  is  Sir  John  Maundeville! 

So  we  march — tramp!  tramp!     Do  you  wonder  that  our  tread 
Stamps  up  the  ghosts  of  gallant  knights  from  dust  of  days  long  dead? 
When  so  the  glad  world  's  romance-clad,  it 's  hail  the  romance  scamp, 
With  old  glories  on  our  stories,  and  our  march — tramp!  tramp! 


AFTER-SIGHT 


The  room  is  vibrant  with  you — but  they  say 

That  you  have  left  our  day, 
That  even  now  your  frail,  thin  hands  can  hold 
All  power,  as  in  a  bowl  of  heavenly  gold, 
All  wisdom  and  all  beauty  in  the  same, 
And  quaff  your  fill  in  the  eternal  name 
Of  death.    Yet,  have  you  left  us?    You  are  here 
In  this  small  room,  most  dear! 

I  do  not  have  to  question  book  or  chair, 
Table  or  picture.    Here  you  are,  and  there, — 
The  undeniable  presence!   or  'twould  seem 
I  tread  a  chamber  in  the  house  of  dream. 
Where  is  your  voice,  your  touch?    And  yet  they  are 
Both  here — not  far! 

A  city's  day  runs  by  us  in  the  street 
Below.     The  half-barred  shutters  filter  sweet 
And  shaken  sunlight  on  the  flowers  you  love. 

I  may  not  move 

Beneath  this  silence — while  many  a  clanging  bell, 
Street  cries,  harsh  traffic's  roar,  to  blatant  babel  swell. 

Oh,   grace 

Unguessed!     Oh,  now  unveiled  and  lovelier  face! 
This  empty  room  is  how  aware  of  you! 
Though  they  may  call  you  lost— though  She  has  passed — 

At  last — at  last 
This  is  the  soul  I  loved,  and  never  knew! 


[82] 


LILIA'S  TRESS 


It  failed,  past  misty  distances, 
That  last  ripe  note!     He  gained  the  close 
And  found  the  bird-soft  little  tress 
Thorned  on  a  dreaming  rose. 

"Then  take  my  heart,  oh  amorous  eyes, 
But  wonder  not  that  swift  I  follow!" 
A  wing  whirred  past  him  to  the  skies 
As  dawn  waked  thrush  and  swallow. 

"Oh  bird  in  flight!  .  .  ."  The  courtyard  rang 
As,  thralled  by  dream,  he  stumbled  past 
The  drowsing  watch.     The  great  gates  clang. 
He  treads  the  moor  at  last. 

So  say  the  little  elfin  men, 

Beguiling,  slowly-smiling  men, 

The  little  leaping,  dancing  men, 

The  slyly  necromancing  men; 

So  say  the  little  elfin  men, 

"For  dream  of  Lilia,  great  distress. 

For  clasp  of  Lilia,  heathenesse 

And  Lilia's  tress  ...  no  more,  no  less 

Than  Lilia's  eerie,  faerie  tress!" 

He  held  the  dream  before  his  eyes 
And  her  sweet  language  to  his  breast. 
"They  lie!     The  token  tracks  the  prize. 
Doth  its  discovery  not  attest 
That  I  should  follow  and  be  wise? 

"Suddenly  by  my  couch  I  saw 

Her  stand  ...  or  was  it  some  dear  dream? 

So  real  did  the  vision  seem 

I  shook  'twixt  ecstasy  and  awe! 

"Then  peaceful  arms  of  soft  delight 
One  moment  clasped  me.     Eyes  of  dawn 
Drank  of  my  soul.  ...  I  woke — to  night, 
To  naught  but  night — and  found  you  gone! 

"Mountains  are  naught  for  me  to  scale 
Like  as  I  climbed  from  casement-ledge 
And  found — this  sign  you  will  not  fail — 
Sweet  gage,  thorned  to  the  rose's  edge! 

"I  follow!     Be  it  night  or  morn 
I  know  not — but  I  track  my  prize!" 
All  for  a  tress  the  fairies  mourn, 
All  for  two  deep,  unmortal  eyes! 

[83] 


LILIA'S    TRESS 


All  for  a  tress  the  fairies  claim, 

Dogging  the  dreamer  o'er  the  rim 

Of  wastes  where  sound  without  a  name 

Draws  him  through  echoes  of  laughter  dim: 

"Mate  with  your  princess,  crown  her  queen! 
Lilia,  once  by  mortal  men 
Hotly  wooed  and  scorned,  again 
Comes  to  harry  chastest  men, 
Break  a  heart  as  hers  broke  then, 
Giving  ecstatic  arms  and  lips 
To  insure  hope's  dark  eclipse, 
To  insure  all  joy's  eclipse! 
Hate  for  your  Princess — dule  and  teen!" 

The  days  and  nights  were  not.     His  brain 
Whirled  onward  'round  one  dim  refrain, 
"Will  you  not  love  me?"    What  now  were 
Earth,  Heaven,  Hell,  withouten  her? 
Earth,  Heaven,  Hell  but  deserts  bare 
Of  one  vast,  voiceless,  blank  despair! 
Oh,  blessed  lightnings!     Sheol  rare! 

Chuckle  the  little  elfin  men, 
Deriding,  woe-betiding  men, 
The  little  finger-nosing  men, 
The  prophecy-unclosing  men! 
Thus  mock  the  little  elfin  men, 
"For  dream  of  Lilia,  great  distress. 
For  clasp  of  Lilia,  desp'rateness. 
Give  us  the  tress — we  crave  no  less! 
Ah,  fool!  beguiled  by  Lilia's  tress." 

And  so  at  last  the  world's  edge  came 

Upon  him  like  a  sword  of  flame. 

Far  down  the  cloud-abyss  below 

Cold,  mocking  laughter  seemed  to  go. 

He  saw  white  arms,  a  laughing  eye, 

Two  rose-leaf  lips  all  pursed   awry 

In  an  ill-willing,  chilling  cry. 

She  vanished.  .  .  .  and  he  could  not  die! 

He  cast  the  tress — took  paces  three — 
And  saw  it  vanish  utterly. 

Still  do  they  point  the  blasted  tree, 

That  fallen  oak  upon  the  lea, 

That  he  uprooted  frenziedly. 

And  they  will  show  the  rocks  he  brake, 

The  fissures  that  his  heels  did  make, 

The  stones  he  crumbled,  flake  by  flake. 

That  morning  by  the  lapping  moat 

They  found  him  mumbling  things  by  rote. 

He  flew  at  his  betrothed's  throat. 


[84] 


LI  LI  A' S    TRESS 


So  say  the  little  elfin  men, 

Beguiling,  slowly-smiling  men, 

The  little  leaping,  dancing  men, 

The  slyly  necromancing  men; 

So  say  the  little  elfin  men, 

"For  dream  of  Lilia,  great  distress. 

For  clasp  of  Lilia,  heathenesse. 

For  Lilia's  tress — Hell-fire,  we  guess! 

A   fearsome,   weirdsome,   faerie   tress! 


THE  BRAWL 


Rapiers,  clash  over  the  wine  cups! 

(Guard,  gallants  merry!) 
Fling  the  flincher  to  bait  where  the  swine  sups! 

(Ward,  gallants  merry!) 

Here  in  the  house  of  fray  flickers  good  steel. 
Room  for  the  rapier's  way,  elbow  and  heel! 
Drunken  night  pales  from  day,  doomward  to  reel, 

(Huzza!     Thrust  and  parry!) 

Watch  where  the  windows  grow  lighter! 
Candle-light  shrinks  on  the  tables. 
Dawn  lays  her  chill  on  the  fighter. 
Ho!     Our  steeds  stamp  in  the  stables. 

(Thrust,  gallants  merry!) 
Wine  stains  or  blood  stains  are  ruddy. 
Whip  over  guard  to  the  heart! 
Wrists,  all  so  supple  and  bloody, 

Play  a  brave  part! 

Harry  it  home  in  the  tierce! 

(Hasten  and  harry!) 
Serpents  our  swords  are,  to  pierce. 

(Close,  gallants  merry!) 
Crouch — ward — a  brave  clash  of  steels. 
Look  you,  he  topples — he  reels! 
Death  beats  tattoo  with  his  heels! 

(Huzza!     Thrust  and  parry!) 


[85] 


THE  HALCYON  BIRDS 


It  was  a  city  rare, 
A  stately,  stainless  city: 

Trachinae,  known  of  old 
By  soft-voiced  folk  and  kind. 
Poets,  that  build  of  air 
And  cloud  high  realms  of  joy  and  pity, 

Ne'er  may  your  eyes  behold 
Such  streets  as  those  did  climb  and  wind 

Up  through  the  golden  haze 
That  hung  about  that  city's  towers 

And  misted  all  its  days 
To  dreams  but  rich-eyed  flowers  may  know 
That  nod  in  fullest  noon 

With  vision's  heavy  swoon. 
This  was  the  great  gods'  fateful  boon 
To  Cyix  long  ago! 

"There  is  a  mountain  fastness 

Where  dwelleth  one  but  half  a  god. 

He  broods  within  a  valley 

No  winged  espial  finds. 

Lone  in  its  desert  vastness 

All  day  he  broods  with  weary  nod, 

Till  sunset  brings  a  sally 

Therein  of  rushing,  roaring  winds. 

"They  stoop  to  him  in  full  career, 
And  soar  with  new  abandon. 
They  cry  within  his  deafened  ear, 
And  round  him  flaunt  their  ways. 
Then  godlike  forms  they  take, 
While  all  the  echoing  mountains  shake 
As  Jove  had  laid  his  hand  on 
Their  buttressed  heights  for  praise. 

"He  binds  them  to  his  nod, 

That  ancient,  daylong  sleeper. 

Aye,  though  but  half  a  god, 

Aeolus,  the  assigned 

By  Jove  to  be  for  ay 

The  four  winds'  faithful  keeper, 

Calms  them  at  close  of  day 

To  hush,  before  his  master  mind." 

Thus  spake  Halcyone 
One  noon  within  the  garden 
Of  white  Trachinae's  palace 
Above  the  glimmering  sea; 


[86] 


THE   HALCYON   BIRDS 


For  Cyix'  bride  was  she, 

And  daughter  of  the  warden 

Of  winds,  whose  love  or  scorn  or  malice, 

Bound  them  or  loosed  tumultuously. 

But  Cyix,  oh,  Cyix,  son  of  Hesper, 

What  have  you  heard? 
Through  the  beat  of  the  sea  an  ancient  whisper? 

In  noon  a  word? 

"Claros  claims  me  now.     I  have  heard  my  warning. 

Love,  weep  not  so! 
Fate's  priestess  calls  me  by  night  and  morning, 

And  I  must  go. 

"The  portents  that  brook  no  light  transgression 

Crowd  round  my  sleep. 
By  my  couch  all  night  in  a  grim  procession 

They  pass,  and  keep 

"In  the  noon-day  my  heart  from  your  heart  withholden 

And  tasks  of  state. 
Though  the  days  of  our  love  grow  long  and  golden 

I  may  not  wait!" 

He  loosed  her  hand  on  the  high,  bright  terrace 

And  turned  away. 
In  her  vision,  a  storm  off  the  coast  of  Claros 

Drew  o'er  the  bay 

As  she  stood  alone.     The  bright  sea  darkened. 

Swift  lightnings  played 
Through  the  shriek  of  the  fancied  blast.    She  barkened 

And  fell  afraid. 

The  ship  they  fitted  with  purple  sail. 

From  the  ship-house  her  gleaming  length  they  drew. 

"Like  a  hawk  she  will  drive  before  the  gale!" 

Said  the  shipmen  leal  and  true. 

The  ship  they  fitted  with  flashing  oars 

And  her  poop  they  spread  with  a  carpet  fine. 

"Like  a  swan  she  will  ride  when  the  storm-cloud  pours!" 

Said  the  rowers  thirty  and  nine. 

Trachinae's  walls  gave  cheer  on  cheer 
As  the  long  oars  swirled  the  foam. 
All  white  Trachinae's  townsfolk  cheer, 
But  one  upon  the  walls  doth  hear 
The  roaring  winds  of  her  ancient  home, 
Like  hounds  that  are  loosed  on  the  wild  hart's  track 
Giving  tongue  in  a  fierce  and  howling  pack, 
Now  scudding  low  with  wings  that  gloom 
Broad  heaven  with  portents  dire, 
Now  streaming,  rising,  spreading  doom. 
Fierce  laughters,  lit  like  fire, 
Wrinkle  and  crackle  through  their  cloud 
On  the  sea,  and  lightnings,  flashing  loud, 
Whip  the  wild  waves  to  foam. 
Thus  heard  Halcyone,  terror-bowed, 
The  hissing  sneer  to  the  waters  cowed, 
The  whine  and  snarl  round  mast  and  shroud 
Of  the  winds  from  her  father's  home. 
[87] 


THE   HALCYON   BIRDS 

But  lift  to  sea  thine  eyes, 

Oh,  weeping  daughter! 
Swift  the  Sea  Bird  flies 
'Mid  shouts  that  spread  and  rise 

Across  the  water. 

And  lift  to  sky  thy  gaze, 

Oh,  wife  of  wailing! 
Prom  high  azure  ways 
A  glad  sun  bends  at  gaze 

To  speed  this  sailing. 

Then  like  her  heart's  last  hope  it  died 

From  sight  against  the  distant  blue, 

That  far-off  sail.    The  sea  lay  wide 

And  calm.     Her  heart  seemed  stricken  through. 

Those  vanished  oars  no  longer  took 

A  flickering  gjint  from  foam  or  sky. 

White  lilies,  'neath  the  reaper's  hook, 

Fall  as  she  fell  without  a  cry. 

They  came  and  took  her  sleeping, 
And  through  the  palace  cool  and  dim 
Carried  her  to  her  chamber  high. 
Toward  morn  she  woke  to  weeping, 
And  by  her  window  sobbed  for  him 
Sad  prayers  to  pierce  a  sadder  sky. 

ii. 

Hail  the  rowers,  who  lift  their  proud  ship  through  the  languorous  surges 
As  she  rides,  like  a  swan  with  the  sunset's  red  gold  on  its  wings, 
Through  the  streaked,  beryl-glimmering 
Sea,  all  one  shimmering 
Sweep  of  soft  hues  to  its  verges, — 

Rides  the  heave  of  its  bosom,  and  forth  from  its  blossoming  billows  trium 
phantly  flings! 

How  the  gleaming  backs  bend  to  the  rippling  light  lunge  and  recover! 
And,  when  sun  strikes  the  length  of  the  deck  to  illustrious  blaze, 
Glisten  muscle  and  tendon 
That  flow  as  they  bend  on 
Their  oars,  and  the  blades  glitter  over, 

And  with  showering  brilliance  of  spray-dripping  dalliance  the  stroke  shuttles 
home  for  a  space. 

And  again  and  again  and  again — till,  like  swords  to  the  scabbard 
Simultaneous  slipped,  flash  the  oar-lengths  shipped  in  at  command, 
And  the  sail,  its  bright  breast 
Stirred  to  eagle  unrest, 
Swells  and  fills  as  the  hull  lists  to  larboard, 

And  she  dips  to  the  trough  of  the  sunset-filled  deep  and  is  lost  to  all  sight  of  the 
land! 

But  hark,  the  sky-harriers,  loosed 
On  the  track  of  vainglorious  ships, 
Where  through  storm-wrack  the  lightnings  are  sluiced 
Give  tongue  in  eclipse! 

And  see  the  dark  press  of  their  wings, 
As  was  warned,  winnow  down  from  the  sky 
As  in  torment  the  wild  ocean  flings 
Its  protest  on  high! 
[88] 


THE   HALCYON   BIRDS 


Hear  you  voices,  oh,  Cyix,  all  blent, 
Through  this  smother  of  furious  foam, 
In  supreme  and  assuageless  lament 
For  the  shaken  Haemonian  home? 

The  furies  have  found  you!     They  rend 
The  stout  decks  with  their  taloned  attack, 
And  the  thick  timbers  buckle  and  bend 
And  the  masts  double  back? 

As  through  Babel  the  thin  voice  of  Fate 
Conquered  tumult,  now  Nemesis  finds 
Words  of  woe  for  who  takes  for  his  mate 
The  Daughter  of  Winds. 

"For  Hesper  still  lightens  serene 
Life's  wild  sea  for  all  hearts  and  all  minds; 
But  dark  passion  and  anguish  and  threne 
Is  the  love  of  the  winds. 

"Choose  to  leap  unrestrained  like  a  flame 
To  that  love  that  abandon  unbinds; 
Utter  bliss,  utter  loss  with  the  same, 
Is  the  word  of  the  winds. 

"Choose  to  flash  unocculted  across 
Life's  sad  tumult,  a  meteor  men  cry 
For  the  freest;    Love's  law  of  your  loss 
t      Makes  silent  reply. 

"Only  see,  though  the  hills  interlock 
And  in  fury  the  world  rend  apart, 
That  sure  love  that  is  lit  for  a  mock 
In  the  sky's  quiet  heart! 

"And  the  tempests  arouse,  rock  and  veer 
As  Aeolus  these  loosens  or  binds, 
But  the  Day-star  sheds  light  down  the  year 
Unstirred  of  the  winds! 

"See  its  flush  on  each  bud  that  is  born 
In  calm  beauty  ere  hands  of  the  hinds 
Pluck  them  passion-disheveled  and  torn, 
Anguish-stained  by  the  winds. 

"Yet  apparel  the  soul  may  not  doff, 
Though  your  whims  weave  rich  robes  of  all  kinds, 
Is  this  calm  that  we   doubt  of  and  scoff!" 
Say  the  travailing  winds. 

"For  there  mingled,  amerced,  fuller-shown 
In  one  light,  every  hue  is  Mankind's. 
In  the  light  of  one  star,  peace  alone! 
Know  us  not!"  cry  the  winds. 

Now  with  that  cry  in  his  soul 
See,  while  the  deeps  draw  about, 
Thunder  and  threaten  and  spout, 
And  the  ship  like  a  spent  horse  reels, 

[89] 


THE   HALCYON   BIRDS 

Foundering  deep  through  the  dark, — 
Withheld  he  stands  and  stark, 
Flung  to  that  whelming  rout 
With  no  frantic  last  appeals! 

Salt  and  deep  and  cold 

That  breast  that  heaves  in  mountainous  mirth! 

Beryl  and  black  with  doom  tosses  that  titan  breast! 

Oh,  glutted  maw,  as  of  old 

Starved  for  a  teeming  Earth, 

Devour  him  deep  in  gloom 

That  a  warrior  heart  have  a  warrior  rest! 

Deep  in  the  streaming  twilight  that  lightens  under  the  sea, 

Silver  and  coral  they  veer  to  him,  fish-fumed,  with  breasts  of  rose; 

But  his  breast  heaves  full  with  despair  for  the  home  where  he  fain  would  be 

And  his  head  drips  up  through  the  dark  ere  their  wet  arms  clasp  and  close. 

"Halcyone!"  heard  the  darkness  from  the  hero  adrift  with  death. 

"Halcyone!"  heard  the  poising  swells  ere  they  broke  in  a  bursting  bath 

Of  darks  shot  through  with  the  dreams  of  the  drowned,  but  Cyix  recalled  his 

breath, 
And  again  "Halcyone!"  heart-rent,  soared  o'er  the  sea's  white  wrath. 

Only  the  Day-star  heard  it,  muffling  his  stricken  face, — 

Only  that  high-held  Hesper,  pacing  his  star-dust  rounds! 

And  that  night,  eclipsed  in  sorrow,  he  waned  from  his  ancient  place, 

And  his  woe  went  across  the  heavens  in  a  shudder  of  starred  profounds! 

And  down  from  that  rabid  night, 

Down  to  a  strange  sea  dawn 

Of  eerie  and  flickered  light, 
Clasped  in  the  arms  of  his  streaming  guides 

Deep-drowned  is  Cyix  drawn 
To  rest  in  the  perilous  Infinite 
Where  drift  through  grotto  and  samphire  lawn 

The  glimmering  undertides. 

So  "Under  the  swell,"  each  sea  thing  sang, 
"Clasped  to  the  swell  of  our  lulling  breasts, 
Cool  and  deep, 
Cool  and  deep, 

Where  the  curtained  deeps  in  darkness  hang 
In  the  soul  of  an  emerald  Cyix  rests! 

"Leander  and  more  in  like  marvel  lie, 
For  whom  our  mothering  voices  called. 
Lucent  laid, 
Lucent  laid, 

Oh,  find  them,  each  green  eternity, 
Hushed  in  the  soul  of  an  emerald! 


"Soulless  the  deeps  that  so  draw  men. 
Soulless  but  long  to  love  are  we; 
And  we  give  all — 
Gladly  all— 

Nor  our  love  of  body  and  soul  dies  when 
The  audit  sounds  of  eternity!" 

[90] 


THE   HALCYON   BIRDS 


in. 

Now  wakes  the  breeze  o'er  Thessaly 
Where  uplands  stir  and  sigh 

With  summer  dawn 
When  that  the  fawn 
Breaks  covert  by  the  pool! 
Now  stirs   the  dawn   o'er  Thessaly; 
Break  bivouac  the  stars  on  high; 

Flush  up  the  Eastern  sky 
Previsionings  of  rosy  rule! 

When  that  the  sun  is  risen — 
When  that  the  sun  is  risen — 
Now,  now  his  golden  sinews  shake  the 

dark  bars  of  his  prison! 
Not  yet  earth's  flowers  fete  their  lord, 

But  multitudinous  in  accord 
Burgeons  the  east,  one  glorious  hanging  bower 

Of  crocus,  rose,  and  violet  in  flower! 
Thither  by  mounting  values  the  adored 

Climbs  clashing  to   his   sway, 
Swift  sunlight  from  his  girt  and  golden  sword 
Raying  upon  the  world  stupendous  day! 

Ah,  but  the  long-watched  window,  with  the  dawn 
Paling  as  hopeless  as  a  prison  wall 

Where  one  with  fear  from  all  the  world  withdrawn 

Clings  to  that  shade,  nor  notes  the  east  at  all 
Build  up  of  hues;  for  ever  rise  and  fall 

Within  her  breast  the  tides  of  doubt  and  dread! 
"For  if  he  come  at  all — oh,  if  he  come  at  all, 
He  floats  ooze-tangled,  drifted  chill  and  dead; 
Dank  seaweeds  be  his  pall; 

Sea  jewels  only  bind  the  locks  of  that  immortal  head." 

Nor  she  descended  all  that  morning  through, 
Halcyone  the  peerless,  pearl  of  price, 
But,  when  the  afternoon  to  evening  grew, 
At  last  upon  the  gates  of  Paradise 
Prevailed  her  soaring  prayers,  and  gentle  eyes 
Bent  Juno  on  the  moaning  speech  of  them, 
And  Iris,  in  this  wise  (Iris  of  rainbow  guise) 
She  charged,  saying,  "Fly  thou  to  the  farthest  hem 

Of  earth,  where  vast  doth  rise 

Somnus'   dark   cave   that   leagues   about   doth   to    rich   sleep 
condemn! 

"From  his  Cimmerian  stupor  Somnus  rouse 

And  bid  him  of  his  henchmen  choose  that  one 
Who  best  in  dream,  at  the  Haemonian  house. 

May  person  Cyix  to  his  woebegone 
Halcyone!     Dispatch!"     And  so  'tis  done. 
Violet-veined  webs  spreads  Iris,  dropping  light 
Flushed  cirrus  clouds  upon — fades  through,  and  so  is 

gone — 
A  rainbow  flicker  lost  in  infinite 

Abysms   coerulean: 

Then    swirls    through    swimming   sunlit   wastes    her    dipping 
dartling  flight! 


[91] 


THE   HALCYON   BIRDS 


IV. 

Breathed  from  the  brain  of  the  Sleeper 
Here  hangs  noonday  hush  it  seems. 
Lethe  murmurs  mazeful  dreams, 
Murmuring,  mazing  deeper,  deeper 
Down  through  shadowy  silences. 
Clouds  upon  the  mountain's  breast 
Like  sea-birds  spent  with  roving  rest. 
Meadowed  poppies  mock  the  reaper. 

Breathed  from  meads  Cimmerian 
Clouds  and  shadows  mingle  wanly. 
Never  night,  nor  dawn, 
Ever  twilight  only 
O'er  this  country  bends  and  blesses. 
And  the  light,  as  from  a  lute 
Laid  aside  still  music  whispers — 
Whispers  and  caresses — 
Glimmers  musing  mute; 
Glimmers  shaken,  overtaken 
By  its  spirit,  wishing  vespers! 

Here  a  cave  hung  high 

In  that  cryptic  mountain  keeping 

Ward  across  the  meads  of  sleeping, 

Like  a  blinded  eye 

Deep  and  dark  secures 

Peace  from  all  allures; 

Those  whereafter  men   run  weeping, 

Wailing,  'neath  the  smileless,  smiling, 

Delphic,  bluely-wiling  sky! 

Drowsed  and  dully  angried, 
Crimson,  gold,  in  heavy  masses 
Poppies  stain  the  seamed  crevasses 
Level  with  that  tunnelled  gloom. 
Lax,  luxuriant  in  bloom 
Droop  they  rich  and  languid, 
And  the  Sleeper's  breathing  passes 
Light  across  them  from  the  largeness 
Of  his  glooming  inner  room. 

From  far  dusk  fell  Iris, 
Twirling  like  a  butterfly, 

From  on  high 

Circling  as  the  eagle's  gyre  is, — 
All  the  splendid  stolen  hues 
Of  her  kirtle  fluttered  loose; 
And  her  bow  made  glittered  quiver, 
Flashing  like  a  falling  river, 
Slim  and  silvern,  sprayed  of  color! 
Where  she  passed  the  clouds  closed  duller 
As  when  dartling  hope  is  lost. 
Her  approach  the  clouds  uptost 
In  a  surf  of  spreading  blaze. 
Swift  and  shot  through  prismy  haze 
Dropped  she  dripping,  stood  and  sheathed 
Wing  before  that  murmurous  cave. 

As  the  wave 
Breathes  before  the  dawn  she  breathed. 

[92] 


THE   HALCYON   BIRDS 


A  little  only  lingering,  she  took 

Within  there  paces  three; 

Felt  how  the  dense  dark  shook 

With  heavy  curtained  mystery; 

Then,  as  her  straining  eyes  grew  used,  and  dim 

Huge  details  compassed,  on  his  high  vague  bed 

Of  sprawled  Atlantean  limb 

Ere  sight  she  knew  of  him: 

Somnus  the  Sleeper!     Dreams  like  flowers  shed, 
In  formless  strange  transparencies  did  swim 
The   valance   round,    and   dusky   folds   dream-broidered 
swathed  his  head. 

A  little  in  that  twilight-grown  gloom 

She  stood;  then  raised  her  arms. 

Like  dayspring  through  the  room 

Flooded  at  once  in  light  alarms 

The  thousand-hued  effulgence  of  her  soul. 

Thick  protest  murmured  from  those  swarms  apress 

Blindly  from  Day  made  whole; 

And  rumbled  mutterings  roll 
From  the  god  canopied  of  weariness. 
He  moves,  he  heaves,  his  heavy  eyes  ache   with  such 
light's  excess. 

At  last,  "Speak,  Goddess,  what  your  errand  is, 
Only  abate  this  flagellating  light!" 
He  said  in  words  like  heavy  silences, 

Heaving  his  length  upright; 

And  by  him,  of  one  height 
Enormous  in  the  dusk  that  closed  on  them, 
Icelos,  Phantasos  and  Morpheus,  dight 
In  robes   rich-shadowed,  heavy  to  the  hem 
With  stuff  of  dreams — his  sons  by  deep-wombed  Night — 
Swayed   as   they   stood,   like   great   rich   blooms    sleep- 
weighted  from  the  stem. 

The  first  it  is  familiars  every  shape 

Of  bird,  beast,  reptile,  to  the  sleeping  eye. 

Patterned  upon  his  muffling  wonder-cape 

In  shifting  phantasy 

Of  lit  or  darkling  dye, 

As  gathered  is  that  garb  or  smoothly  hangs, 
The  mind  may  mark  all  preyers  that  prowl  or  fly, 
Couchant  or  rampant, — all  fierce  lives,  of  fangs 
Or  claws,  and  tamed  to  domesticity 
All  dumb  and  restless  creature  lives  fettered  to  frets  and 
pangs. 

The  second  into  water,  tree  or  hill 
Transforms  himself.     Oh,  to  such  purposes 
Of  peace  would  Man  might  turn  himself  at  will! 

What   bubble   shows  be   these 

To  which  we  bend  our  knees? 
Field,  mountain,  shore  and  leaping  cataract 
Woo  to  no  venerance.    Yet  majesties — 
Awful  eternal  words  to  teach  the  fact — 
Are  instant  from  them.     Gaze!     The  hour  flees. 
Still  rains  the  bridegroom  light  that  lulls  low  plain  and 
mountainous  tract! 


[93] 


THE   HALCYON   BIRDS 


Meet  Phantasos  by  noon,  when  that  the  ways 
Of  men  too  sternly  din,  and  wounds  and  galls 
Oppress  the  soul,  and  through  a  blood-shot  haze 

Close  in  the  iron  walls 

Of  Custom.     Sudden  falls 
Death's  quiet  cool  on  that  Caligulan  shame. 
Through  sweet-souled  meads  and  high  tremendous  halls 
Pine-pillared,  their  voice  the  breathing  of  One  name 
Move  thou  where  such  free,  simple  faith  appalls! 
From  such  unshaken  Future  gaze — and  go  the  ways  of 
Fame! 

Iris  spake  then.    The  Slumberer  heard  and  turned 
To  Morpheus,  the  last,  who  persons  Man. 
Swaying,  he  bowed,  in  all  disguises  learned, 

Shrank  like  a  folded  fan, 

And,  in  a  second's  span, 

Stood  forth  as  Cyix.    Ah!    But  strange  was  this 
Stark  dripping  shade  of  Cyix,  ghostly  wan! 
His  beard  weed-meshed,  the  stroke  of  Nemesis 
Plain  in  his  port,  and,  where  the  ooze  downran 
His  limbs  like  ivory  glimmering  forth,  sapped  of  the  sea's 
last  kiss! 

Moved,  the  bright  messenger  of  Juno  gazed, 

Doubting,  yet  unamazed. 
Lustre  that  instant  languished  from  her  wings, 

And  fearful  shadowings 
Forth  from  the  walls  once  more,  as  now  she  stepped, 

Clambered  and  softly  crept. 

Pooling  the  dark  with  glimmer  followed  he 

His  guide  that  was  to  be. 
Again  narcotic  darkness  filled  the  cave 

Upswelling  wave  on  wave. 
Again  about  that  ebon  bed  in  gleams 

Swam  the  transparent  dreams. 

Breathed  from  the  brain  of  the  Sleeper, 
Once  more  noonday  hush  it  seemed 
Clothed  that  country.    Lethe  dreamed 
Murmuring,  mazing  deeper,  deeper 
Down  through  shadowy  silences. 
Clouds  and  shadows  mingled  wanly. 

Twilight — twilight  only 
Lingered  weak  with  weariness. 

Evening  bent 
From  the  blurring  firmament, 

Bent  to  bless 

All  that  waste  of  weariness 
Where  the  star-crowned  hills  stood  lonely. 


v. 

"Dreams,  dreams!     If  you  wake  it  may  be, 
(Oh,  kind  dream,  blind  dream,  dream  I  hope  to  hold!) 
That  we  fade  down  the  dark  through  that  silent  silver  sea 
On  our  splendid  ship,  our  wonder-ship,  our  ship  of  faerie 
With  its  masts  of  eerie  gold? 


[94] 


THE   HALCYON   BIRDS 


"Dreams,  dreams!     Oh,  tell  me  can  it  be 
(Oh,  sweet  dream,  fleet  dream,  dream  I  hope  to  hold!) 
I  shall  wake  to  the  dawn  with  the  heartache  still  in  me 
Nor  the  barren  light,  the  barren  light  will  bring  him  back  from 

sea 
Save  drifted  still  and  cold?" 

So  o'er  Halcyone  sleep  passed  that  tossing  night, 
Drifting  pure  and  bright,  drifting  great  and  grim, 
Till  the  dream  god  stole  to  her  couch  at  start  of  light 
And  stood  remote  and  dim. 

Woke  she  first  to  the  horror?    Only  this  she  knew: 
Her  love,  torn  from  terrors,  had  triumphed  to  her  there! 
Nor  now  did  she  note  on  his  brow  the  deathly  dew 
Nor  his  weed-meshed  hair. 

Her  arms  reached  to  him,  as  lily-like  she  lay, 
And  the  spirit's  voice  was  like  silence  to  the  blind. 

"Deep  drowned,  deep  drowned  where  the  tides  drift  gray 
Lies  he  you  hope  to  find!" 

Then  swiftly  by  dream  was  the  tale  of  terror  told. 
Groped  she  sobbing  toward  her  waking  as  the  god  made  haste  to 

fly. 
"Deep    drowned!     Deep    drowned!"    through    her    lifting    slumber 

rolled 
As  she  woke  with  stricken  cry. 

Too  well,  too  well, 
Oh,  Morpheus,  molder 
Of  Fate's  disguises 
In  human  form; 
Too  well,  too  well 
On  this  sweet  beholder 
You  pressed  surprises 
Of  shock  and  storm! 

Too  ill,  too  ill, 

Oh,  man-unmaker, 

By  talking  spirits 

Of  artless  art; 

Too  ill,  too  ill 

Were  your  spells  to  wake  her, 

That  she  inherits 

A  broken  heart! 

Her  wail  through  the  chamber  rings. 
Lights  move  by  porch  and  stair. 
To  the  breast  of  her  bent  old  nurse  she  clings 
And  sobs  like  a  wood-dove  her  soft  despair. 
And  the  dawn  grows  up  in  gray 
Through  the  casement,  wide  to  the  sea; 
"  Tis  down  to  the  sands  today,  today; 
For  my  love  drifts  home  to  me!" 

They  have  striven  to  hold  her  there 
But  she  slips  to  the  open  door, 
Like  light  drifts  down  the  stair, 
Like  light  is  across  the  entrance  floor! 
[95] 


THE   HALCYON   BIRDS 


Through  the  open  portico 

Drives  the  keen  blue  smoke  of  the  sea. 

"To  the  sands — to  the  sands — for  this  day  I  know 

That  my  love  drifts  home  to  me!" 

And  at  last,  in  the  drenching,  stinging 

Wet  breath  of  an  ocean  dawn, 

On  the  sands  they  heard  her  singing, 

That  huddled  folk  on  the  palace  lawn; 

Her  hair  like  a  maenad's  blown 

To  the  wind  as  the  east  grew  light 

And  her  arms  o'er  her  head  in  a  fury  thrown 

And  stretched  to  the  Infinite. 

And  now  as  the  east  was  builded 

Shade  on  shade  to  surprising  hue; 

As  the  sun's  ascendance  gilded 

Flushed  turrets  where  windy  banners  blew; 

A  speck  on  the  sea-line  only, 

A  fleck  on  the  gray  sea-blur, 

Weed-palled  and  supreme  and  lonely 

Her  love  drifted  home  to  her! 


Out  of  the  night  and  the  weeping, 
Out  of  the  deep  vast  dark, 
Back  from  abysses  keeping 
Their  secrets  stern  and  -stark, 
Into  the  glorious  morning 
Sent  from  his  sepulchre, 
In  splendid  and  solemn  warning 
Her  love  drifted  home  to  her! 

Oh,  dream  more  divine  and  thrilling 
Than  the  sky's  full  radiance  then 
When  love  to  supreme   love's  willing 
Returned  from  the  graves  of  men! 
Oh,  triumphant  human  sorrow 
Resurrecting   what   fates   inter! 
For  a  light  to  mankind's  tomorrow 
Her  love  drifted  home  to  her. 

Then  surges  shimmered  before  him 
And  waves  were  a  way  for  him. 
The  sky  bent  low  to  adore  him. 
The  sea-line's  light  grew  dim. 
And  there  on  a  shoal  outstanding 
Beat  round  by  the  laughing  sea, 
Those  immortal  deeps  commanding, 
She  waited — Halcyone! 

Pale  and  proud  and  stricken 
In  through  the  blue  he  came; 
And,  feeling  her  pulses  quicken, 
On  her  lips  her  lover's  name, 
Swift  from  the  shoal,  and  spurning 
Its  sand,  all  her  being  stirred, 
She  leapt  in  anguish  turning 
To  a  skimming  and  crying  bird! 

[96] 


THE   HALCYON   BIRDS 


To  his  breast!     And  they  rose  together 

Miraculous  and  bright, 

Up  through  the  fierce  blue  weather 

Wing  to  wing  in  their  flight, 

Their  golden,  golden  crying 

Athrob  with  their  pinions'  surge, 

Glorying,  waning,  and  dying 

O'er  the  shaken  sea's  dim  verge! 

Oh,  light  that  no  night  hath  taken 
From  the  wailing  and  crying  sea! 
Oh,  miraculous  anthem  shaken 
From  a  heaven   of  harmony! 
Still  that  light  from  heaven  is  pouring 
Beyond  speech  or  the  reach  of  words 
As  it  blazed  round  their  stricken  soaring— 
The  joy  of  the  Halcyon  Birds! 

For  a  period  sent  of  heaven 
Aeolus  the  surges  binds 
With  halcyon  days  and  seven 
Untroubled  of  waves  or  winds. 
Then  softly  that  high-held  Hesper, 
With  the  sea  dawn  raying  low 
Tells  in  a  starlight  whisper 
This  tale  of  the  long  ago. 

Then  her  sweet  wild  name  goes  thrilling 
With  its  woe  o'er  the  glimmered  sea, 
And  the  soul  of  the  deep  swells  filling 
With  its  wonder — Halcyone! 
And  ray  on  effulgent  ray,  star 
On  star,  with  a  blaze  that  blinds, 
Chants  the  song  of  the  son  of  the  Day-star 
And  the  daughter  of  the  winds! 


THE  ROUNDHOUSE 


Rembrandt  alone  could  paint  this  mammoth  shed 
Filled  with  weird  hissing  like  some  hydra's  lair, 
Where  thick  smoke  eddies  through  the  sunless  air 
And  webs  of  steel  curve  upward  overhead. 
These  floors  run  burning  oils.     These  fires  are  fed 
From  pits  of  Tartarus.     Against  the  glare 
High-shouldered,  coal-black  gryphons  crouch  and  stare. 
Their  heavy  panting  wakes  a  sense  of  dread. 

Yet  stranger  far,  the  human  ants  in  hordes 
Who  swarm  like  imps  in  some  infernal  masque, 
Seeming  to  guide  each  awful  shape  of  power 
As  th'  elemental  spirits'  potent  lords, — 
Yet  only  toiling  at  their  common  task, 
Bound  by  a  schedule  to  the  clamoring  hour! 


[97] 


THE  CENTAUR'S  FAREWELL 

For  they  found  Chiron,  their  ancient  tutor,  standing  stiffly  before  his  cave, 
when  that  they  had  forded  Anaurus  and  come  to  that  clearing  beneath  the  face 
of  Pelion  above  the  thymy  downs.  Then  they  spake  of  Pelias  and  the  launch 
ing  at  Pegasa.  And  there  was  tossing  of  war-bonnets,  shouts  and  laughter 
and  weeping.  The  boy  Achilles  brought  them  wine  with  eyes  of  wonder.  And 
his  father  kissed  him  and  bade  him  be  of  cheer.  Then  they  knelt  when  that 
the  ancient  centaur  raised  his  hands.  And  they  departed  to  their  ship,  but  the 
boy  and  the  ancient  stood  upon  the  headland  to  watch  them  out  to  sea. 

"They  are  passed  from  the  feast  that  my  hands  might  have  spread,  from  the 

boughs  that  mine  arms  might  have  laid, 

In  the  days  when  I  taught  them,  Achilles, — so  young,  oh,  youth  of  my  heart! 
Past  Athos  to  face,  beyond  Samothrace,  the  Hellespont  mantling  dismayed 
With  gales,  ere  the  Euxine,  thick-darkened  with  storm,  looms  black  where  the 

cliffs  draw  apart! 
They  are  passed  from  the  hoofs  that  defended  their  raids,  from  the  eyes  that 

were  watch  o'er  their  sleep, 
From  the  harp  that  rang  battle,  the  lips  that  made  wise  young  athletes  to 

wrestle  and  leap, — 
They  are  passed  from  their  teacher,  their  father,  their  friend,— and  the  old  way 

for  heroes  is  steep; 
Aye,  steep  as  the  climb  past  Anaurus,  with  torrents  as  cruel  athwart! 

"Look  south  on  the  little  walled  towns  of  the  world  where  Hsemonia  shines  in 

the  sun! 

Look  north  to  Olympus  and  Ossa,  Achilles,  child  of  the  light! 
For  these  were  the  lowlands  they  rambled  with  laughter,  the  heights  where  the 

hunt  used  to  run 
With  insolent  twanging  of  bow-strings, — the  stag  tracked  forth  from  the  thickets 

of  night. 

^Eneus  and  Actaeon,  Jason  the  Healer,  wild  Heracles  shouting  aloud, 
Asclepius  twining  an  arm  with  his  serpents,  and  Peleus  graceful  and  proud, 
The  golden-souled  Orpheus  lithe  at  the  race,  with  his  strange  voice  and  harp 

for  the  crowd, — 
Ah,  once  they  returned  with  the  nightfall  where  red  flamed  their  welcome 

and  bright! 

"My  children  go  forth  to  the  gods  of  their  sires  to  serve  and  to  conquer  and  sin. 

Once— they  were  young,  Achilles, — as  young  as  thou  art,  and  as  glad. 
And  I,  who  am  wise  with  old  judgments  and  gods  and  the  trophies  it  boots  not 

to  win, 

Misshapen,  uncouth,  feel  the  sorrows  of  ages  on  heavy-bowed  shoulders  and  sad. 
The  Kronian  dead  are  my  watchers  by  night  and  my  shadowy  comrades  by  day; 
And  lapetus  sired  and  Clymene  bore  him  a  race  that  were  mightier  than  they. 
The  Golden,  the  Silvern,  the  Brazen,  the  Heroes,  the  Iron, — and  then  pass  away 

The  races  of  man,  like  the  foam-front  sucked  back  from  the  sands  it  hath 
had! 


[98] 


THE    CENTAUR'S   FAREWELL 

"I  wait  for  the  wars  that  shall  be,  though  the  heavens  grow  pale  with  the  din 

of  our  wars. 

The  Phicean  hill  knows  a  portent  and  Laius  is  slain  in  his  blood. 
One  sins  at  the  couch  of  Jocasta,  and  raises  his  sick,  sightless  face  to  the  stars. 
Assault  is  on  Thebes,  and  the  Brothers  are  ashes  where  towers  have  trembled 

and  stood. 

Nay,  thou— even  thou,  sturdy  lad  of  the  quiver— I  mark  thee  on  alien  shores 
That   arm   hurls    its    spear   by   encrimsoned    Scamander.     They    fall    in    their 

streets,  at  their  doors, 
Bright  warriors  in  harness,— for  shame  is  on  Ilium,  and  ravage  and  red  battle 

roars 
Ere  Glaucos  call  forth  his  sea-horses  to  trample  their  prows  in  the  flood. 

"—And  the  past?    I  have  looked  on  the  perfect  Gyrene  the  sun-god  once  called 

me  to  see, 
She  that  bore  the  nymphs'  bane,  Aristeaus,  the  boy  and  the  keeper  of  bees- 

And  that  spouse  at  whose  wedding  the  evil  Eurytion  made  't  shameful  such 
centaurs  should  be. 

I  have  known  Teiresias— Melampus— as  wise  as  the  gods  of  all  ranks  and  de 
grees. 

My  fate  at  Malea  the  future  unveils,  and  my  death  by— the  flower  pf  my  sons 

Ah,  Pholos,  that  wine  that  the  Mightiest  unseals  flows  red  as  my  ebbing  life 

Nay,  child  of  my  heart,  turn  thine  eyes  down  to  lolcus,  and  mark  the  delectable 
ones 

Half-glimpsed  through  the  trailing  arbutus  and  dark  and  thick-clambering 
trees  I 

"Haunt,  haunt,  oh,  Napaeae,  the  eyes  of  him  ever,  that  ever  he  rest  by  my  side  t 
Nymphs  of  Pelion,  blind  him  and  bind  him!     The  sun  is  gone  low  in  the 

They  are  passed,  the  brave  pupils  that  Chiron  held  dearly,  the  young  gods  that 

spake  to  his  pride. 
All  are  passed;  this  the  last,  whose  eyes  follow  the  Argo  afar  on  the  perilous 

quest!  .  .  . 
Cold,  cold  is  the  cave,  and  the  ashes  are  scattered  of  nights  that  were  feasting 

and  rhyme. 
Ah,  Orpheus,  my  Orpheus,  haled  over  Strymon  to  days  of  long-suffering  and 

crime, 
The  leaves  are  fall'n  fast  on  the  days  that  were  marjoram— marjoram    myrtle 

and  thyme! 
My  sleep  shall  bring  dreams  that  are  barren,  and  midnight  wail  out  on  my 


[991 


THE  FLOWER  GIRL 


(Reign  of  Queen  Anne) 

Chimney-pot  to  chimney-pot  who  is  it  creeps, 
Whisking  on  the  slates  of  the  roof  above  my  bed? 
Black  cats,  rusty  bats,  little  inky  sweeps 
Dusting  with  their  besoms  the  tiles  overhead? 
Whimper,  whimper,  wind  down  the  fire-grate  flue! 
Rattle,  little  window!     What  shall  I  do? 
Nicolo  Night-cap,  say,  is  it  you? 

I  '11  draw  up  my  coverlid,  red  and  blue  and  green, 

Tufted  and  flowered  and  patchwork-made. 

How  the  mad  yellow  moonlight  dances  on  the  screen 

And  fills  my  little  closet,  and  makes  me  afraid! 

The  cobwebs  wink  up  there  in  the  corner  by  the  flue, 

And  the  bedstead  shakes,  and  the  fire  burns  blue! 

Nicolo  Night-cap,  what  shall  I  do? 

Right  up  next  the  sky  they  've  tucked  me  away, 

For  the  pennies  come  few  in  the  long  street-hours. 

The  sparrows  look  in  when  the  sun  shouts,  "Day!" 

Men  wake  to  their  work  and  I  to  sell  them  flowers, 

With  my  panniers  and  my  kerchief  and  my  smile — but  whiles 

'Tis  gray  and  drizzly  weather  for  the  best  of  smiles! 

Hist!     I  '11  tell  you  of  Nicolo!     He  's  spry  as  a  rat. 
He  's  a  peeping,  squeaking  brownie,  and  a  chimney  elf. 
And— he  wears  a  cotton  night-cap  instead  of  a  hat, 
And — he  dances  on  the  roof-tops  and  whispers  to  himself. 
He  '11  slide  down  the  rain-spout  and  peep  right  through 
My  little  yellow  window.    Then  what  shall  I  do? 
Nicolo  Night-cap,  say,  is  it  you? 

One  night  I  dreamed  of  farthings,  and — pop!— like  that, 
He  stood  by  my  bed  and  whisked  me  up  the  wall. 
And  we  danced  down  the  roof-tops  that  lie  so  far  and  flat 
Up  there  next  the  moon,  where  there  's  nothing  else  at  all. 
And  he  whispered  down  the  stars  for  hours  and  hours, 
Till  they  overflowed  my  apron  like  a  lapful  of  flowers. 

They  ruffled  soft  and  blue  and  flowery-red  and  green. 
I  held  both  arms,  and  they  heaped  my  apron  high. 
I  sold  them  on  the  Strand  to  the  ladies  of  the  Queen, 
Billowy  dames,  pompous  peers,  and  the  beaux  that  pass  me  by. 
But  the  squeaking,  tweaking  brownies  on  the  roof  overhead 
Were  hard  on  my  heels  when  I  tumbled  back  to  bed! 

Chimney-pot  to  chimney-pot,  hear  the  brownie  creep! 
Nicolo  Night-cap,  my  mind's  all  awhirl! 
The  little  yellow  window  just  begs  him  to  peep. 
Who'll  help  or  who'll  comfort  a  small  flower-girl? 
Whimper,  whimper,  wind  down  the  fire-grate  flue! 
Rattle,  little  window!     What  shall  I  do? 
Nicolo  Night-cap,  say,  is  it  you? 
[100] 


WHAT  SAID  THE  LITTLE  ADMIRAL? 

"Says  he,  'I  '11  get  my  full  Gazette  this  day,  or  there  will  be 

A  tablet  in  Westminster  and  a  burial  at  sea! 

England's  old-woman  Ministry,  knit  on,  knit  on,  I  say! 

You  made  us  cowards  at  Corsica,  you  doubted  Jervis'  fleet, 

You  snarled  at  me  when  I  would  me  at  Alexandriay. 

Now,  "Nap"  's  here,  boys!     A  cheer!'  .  .  .  And  the  drums  began  to  beat. 

"Says  he,  'You  grutched  my  blinded  eye  and  blinked  my  empty  sleeve; 

Well,  Lord  Hood  has  seen  my  sailor-men  at  Bastia,  by  your  leave. 

My  men  were  ghosts  at  Calvi  under  the  lion-sun. 

The  Austrians  smirked  and  blenched  and  shirked,  but  I  cut  the  Dons  in  two 

The  'tother  side  Gibraltar, — and  you  know  how  that  was  done! 

But  it 's  made  you  afraid  of  me,  rear  admiral  of  the  Blue. 

'  'You  want  my  explanations  for  "chasing  round  the  sea?" 
You  '11  want  no  explanations  tonight,  for  there  will  be 
The  grandest,  brightest  bonfire  of  Crapaud's  shrouds  and  spars 
That  ever  lighted  London  with  loud  huzzas  and  hearty! 
Officers,  sup,— and  then  we  '11  up,  and  show  how  Nelson  wars. 
Langridge-grog  for  the  Frog,  red-hot  grog  for  Boneyparty!' 

"Says  he,  'I  '11  get  my  own  Gazette!'     He  got  it  on  that  night 

Y/e  saw  him,  in  the  cockpit,  come  reeling  from  the  fight 

All  blind  with  blood,  but,— 'Serve  my  men,  surgeon!     I'll  bide  my  turn  ' 

And  a  'king'  like  that  don't  die,  for  when  disaster  rent  the  wave 

We  heard  him  from  the  quarter-deck,  as  the  'Orient'  roared  astern, 

'Man  the  boats,  while  there  floats  a  foe  of  ours  to  save!' 


"And  he  so  keen  that  the  Culloden  should  get  her  rightful  praise! 

Well,  he  had  an  eye  for  all  of  us;  as,  on  that  day  of  days, 

He  knew  where  Trowbridge  was,  and  how  his  shoaling  saved  the  night. 

God  rest  the  little  Admiral,  and  such  as  he,  I  say, 

With  a  heart  for  every  Jack  afloat,  and  a  stomach  for  a  fight, 

And  his  fame  in  the  name  of  the  fight  off  Afrikay! 


THE  HAPPY  FOOL 


I  would  not  be  a  dogmatist, 
Banging  a  heavy,  hairy  fist 
To  crack  the  pint-pots  on  the  table. 
But  I  would  dream  as  I  am  able 
And  noose  God's  wonders  in  a  twist 
Of  quaintest  thought  and  rippled  rhyme; 
By  happy  turns  of  fortunate  phrase 
Would  capture  Faith,  and  teach  stern  Time 
To  mend  his  ways. 

I  have  heard  out  the  burning  boys, 
And  now  they  tire  me  with  their  noise. 
Where  there  's  intense  belief,  why  scoff  it? 
But  rare  's  the  code  and  rare  's  the  prophet 

[101] 


THE     HAPPY    FOOL 


With  the  sincere,  authentic  voice; 
And  all  may  rattle  iron-ware 
Or  fling  a  torch,  Salmoneus-like, 
Crying  "It  thunders — lightens!"  ere 
Real  lightnings  strike. 

They  premise  and  they  start  to  "prove"; 
And  then  you  're  in  another  groove 
As  narrow  as  the  one  disputed. 
Another  moiety  fitly  suited, — 
But  all  the  world? — all  men  approve 
The  self-same  set  of  able  rules? 
I  've  yet  to  see  them.     So,  for  me, 
Dreams  and  vast  wonderment;   a  fool's 
Wisdom,  maybe! 


A  PASSAGE  TO  ITALY 


"On  board  ship  the  same  night  he  wrote  the  sonnet." 

— Colvin's  Life. 

The  Channel  glitters  underneath  the  moon! 

Severn  and  I  shall  be  at  Naples  soon; 

At  Naples  soon  enough,  and  then  at  Rome. 

Brown   has   my  letter  now — if  Brown's  at  home. 

I  thought  at  Gravesend  surely.  .  .  .  Good  old  Brown, 

Rare  'mid  the  Lakes — how  kind  in  London-town! 

Thank  God  for  Wentworth  Place! 

Oh,  curse  this  croup, 
I  might  be  infant  at  the  Swan  and  Hoop 
Once  more,  by  the  infernal  way  I  cough! 
Bull-pup  John  Keats,  a  pretty  taking-off! 
Confound  this  throat!     That   Scottish  travelling.  .  .  . 
And  never  even  learned  the  Highland  fling; 
Only,  at  Dumfries,  (How  one  lives  and  learns!) 
Wrote  a  bad  sonnet — very  bad! — on  Burns. 

Urr-r-r-r!     Well,  it's  easier  now.     Gods,  what  a  night! 
How  goes  it?    "Great  ring  of  pure  and  endless  light 

All  calm  as  it  was  bright." 

Good  words,  good  Vaughan.     Who  quoted  him?    Did  Lamb 
Or  Wordsworth?    Wordsworth!     Why,  the  man's  a  clam! 
"A  pretty  piece  of  paganism." — damn! 
I  wish  him  chivvied  by  bacchanals  laying  fear  on 
A   second   Pentheus   of   Mount   Citheron.  .  .  . 
Yet  no  ...  I  '11  save  him  from  my  utter  scorn 
Because  of  "Triton  and  his  wreathed  horn." 

Oh,  well,  let  me  forget— let  me  forget, 

Or  else  I  may  remember  Lockhart  yet, 

Old  Lockhart-mock-heart, — yes,  or  Mr.  Abbey, 

The  dragon  of  our  gold — the  miauling  ta'b'by! 

Ah,  Fanny  .  .  .  Fanny?    At  the  name  I  'm  gone. 

And  yet  all  names  lead  back  to  ...  Fool  and  pawn, 

Miserable! 

[102] 


A    PASSAGE    TO    ITALY 


"An  idle,  loafing  felley." 

That 's  you,  John  Keats.    And  there  is  Percy  Shelley 
To  play  my  host  at  Pisa,  if  I  would. 
I  won't.     Although  I  'm  sure  he  's  very  good. 

Well,  well,  God  save  Apothecaries  Hall! 
Suppose  I  'd  turned  the  surgeon,  after  all, — 
Suppose  away  "Endymion,"  call  me  wise, 
And  carol  "One  more  surgeon  made  at  Guy's! 
He  never  read  with  Clarke  at  Clerkenwell. 
Leigh  Hunt's  'Examiner'  will  never  tell 
Of  pristine  'Chapman's  Homer,'  and  the  rest. 
He  saw  the  dullest  thing  was  for  the  best, 
So  waxed  at  money-bags  respectable!" 

And  failed  God's  fiery  charge!     And  stinks  in  Hell! 

See,  little  breeze  upon  my  forehead,  see, 
We  all  become  what  we  were  meant  to  be, 
Just  with  a  little  courage!  and  there's  still 
Within  each  poet's  heart  the  enchanted  hill 
Of  vision — or  "beside  Hydaspes  cool" 
The  "faery  city,  'neath  the  potent  rule 
Of  Emperor  Elfinan." 

I  must  agree, 

Though  musical,  that  beldame  "Sans  Merci," 
The  thing  Hunt  printed  in  the  "Indicator," 
Seems  trivial  now,  and  "Cap  and  Bells"  seems  greater. 
Good  lack,  far  livelier!     Until  it  cloyed 
Even  on  the  taste  of — tch!  tch! — "Lucy  Lloyd!" 

Well,  goodly  Reynolds,  our  Boccaccio  tales 

Fell  by  the  wayside,  and  our  wits  were  snails, 

And  only  "Isabella"  stood  me  staunch, 

Blooms  late — and  withers  on  my  poisoned  branch! 

Jeffrey  can't  help.     The  brush  fire  's  burning  brightly. 

And  in  goes  Taylor  and  Hessey's  tome,  politely. 

It  must  be  late.    How  goes  the  line  I  wrote, 

The  one  that  to  myself  I  love  to  quote, 

The  one  to  me  that  makes  all  others  mute? 

"Oh,  golden-tongued  Romance  with  serene  lute!" 

A  brave  epitome,  my  lad,  John  Keats! 

There  your  soul  speaks.     There  your  heart  truly  beats, 

Free  of  the  strained  archaic,  Spenser's  lure, 

In  homage  unto  Shakspere  held  secure. 

Grant  that — this  cough! — I  live  to  weave  such  rhyme — 

Urr-r-r-r!     Curse  it!     Curse  it! — in  a  warmer  clime. 

Good  night,  inconstant  home!     Good  night,  my  heart, — 
And  one — and  one — who  will  not  know  her  part! 
Bright  star,  would  she  were  steadfast  as  thou  art.  .  .  . 
Bright  star,  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art.  .  .  . 
As  steadfast — as  thou — art.  . 


[103] 


THE  ANCIENTS 


The  ancients  wiled  him  while  he  slept. 
On  all  his  ways  a  watch  they  kept. 
At  his  bed's  foot  they  stood  in  sight, 
And  bade  him  rise  when  day  grew  light 
To  other  dreams  than  he  should  quest. 
They  would  not  ever  let  him  rest. 

Why,  he  had  gazed  upon  the  face 

Of  victory  at  Samothrace 

And  all  the  glory  that  was  hers. 

With  bronzed  Phoenician  mariners 

At  Gades  by  the  western  gate 

He  had  seen  Melkarth's  nuptial  state 

In  sunset  splendors  manifest 

O'er  the  far  Islands  of  the  Blest. 

With  Cyrus  'neath  the  colored  walls 
Of  Ecbatana — in  the  halls 
Of  Nero's  golden  house,  where  flowers 
Rained  on  the  guests  at  banquet  hours — 
He  had  inhaled  the  strange  perfume 
Of  ancient  gorgeousness  and  gloom. 
And  he  had  seen  the  cedar  beams 
Of  Solomon's  palace  in  his  dreams, 
And  stood  with  Croesus  to  behold 
The  Lydian  river  foaming  gold. 
With  Hassan,  as  Arabians  say, 
He  had  been  caliph  for  a  day. 

The  Theban  three  had  dazed  his  sight; 

The  high  priest  chanting  to  the  light, 

With  antique  litanies  between; 

The  white  bull  through  the  incense  seen; 

And  queens  had  passed  with  peacock  fans, 

Their  naos  borne  by  Africans: 

Delicious  beauty  decked  at  ease 

With  corals  from  Erythrean  seas 

And  whelky  pearls  plucked  from  the  deep. 

Battles  had  burst  across  his  sleep. 
He  stood  with  Codes  at  the  bridge; 
With  Hannibal  he  clomb  the  ridge; 
Felt  a  Scaevola's  haughty  ire 
To  thrust  his  arm  into  the  fire 
And  laugh  for  scorn.    Or  he  would  call 
Torqued  Manlius  who  slew  the  Gaul 
Unto  his  aid  in  times  of  stress. 


[104] 


THE   ANCIENTS 


More  than  Thalassius'  happiness 

He  had  wrested  from  the  Sabine  past. 

He  had  stood  with  those  about  the  mast 

Whom  Theseus  succoured  with  his  fleet 

Daring  the  brazen  man  of  Crete. 

He  had  seen  the  Thirty's  treacheries 

Slay  houseless  Alcibiades, 

And  with  the  few  who  held  the  pass 

Had  likewise  cheered  Leonidas. 

So  vivid  to  him  were  their  stories 
That  he  would  stammer  o'er  their  glories, 
In  his  small,  dingy  room,  at  me — 
Some  soiled  page  smoothed  upon  his  knee. 
He  drudged  all  day,  but,  once  upstairs 
At  night,  the  ancients  claimed  him  theirs. 
He  grudged  his  hurried  supper  time 
Till  he  was  home,  with  prose  or  rhyme 
To  swing  the  gate  or  burst  the  gyve; 
And  then  the  man  became  alive. 

And  so  he  failed  as  man  with  men, 
And  so  his  stature  grew  again 
By  night,  o'er  history  or  fable, 
With  the  lamp  smoking  on  the  table — 
Boy  to  the  last  and  steeped  in  glory. 

His  living  was  a  different  story? 
Yet  who  can  doubt  his  life's  amends. 
I  have  known  far  less  worthy  ends 
Than  his;  to  pulsate  with  a  passion 
And  heroism  out  of  fashion, 
To  steep  himself  in  ancient  color 
Till  good  gray  life  grew  all  the  duller; 
I  have  known  far  paltrier  ends,  I  say, 
To  gain  the  acclaim  of  this  our  day. 

His  hero  worship  filled  the  lack 
Of  all  a  man  wants  at  his  back; 
Friends,  wealth,  position,  fame,  a  wife. 
He  never  wished  these  things  of  life, — 
Nor  just  desired  his  hunger  fed 
As  reliquary  of  the  dead, — 
But  fanned  a  rare,  bright  flame  of  praise 
Lest  honor  die  from  elder  days. 


[1051 


A  COLD  TEMPERAMENT 


When  arguments  grew  too  intense, 

He  was  a  master-hand  to  fence, 

To  say  the  excruciating  thing, 

To  pluck  the  plum  or  draw  the  sting 

Of  any  heavy  conversation 

With  some  immortal   observation. 

They  say  that  he  was  cold,  aloof, — 

He  never  had  been  put  to  proof 

By  birth  or  death,  by  child  or  wife, — 

That  he  but  smiled  and  strolled  through  life, 

With  all  its  wolfish  pain  and  want, 

Too  clever  and  too  nonchalant. 

Well,  he  was  never  in  a  passion 
Of  love  or  protest, — but  his  fashion 
Was  all  too  mild  (as  time  enhances) 
To  draw  such  very  furious  glances, 
When  his  smile  gleamed,  as  words  abated, 
And  he  said  something  many  hated. 

When  people  took  themselves  too  seriously, 
When  they  emotionalized  imperiously, 
And  when  their  bias  seemed  too  arrant 
Or  condescension  too  apparent, 
His  eyes  were  sheathed,  his  fork  was  shifted, 
Only  his  eyebrows  slightly  lifted. 

The  things  he  said  were  sometimes  odd; 
And  whether  he  believed  in  God 
I  can't  conjecture/  And  because 
His  heart  was  never  meat  for  daws, 
I  do  not  know — to  change  the  topic — 
If  he  was  "sweet"  or  "philanthropic." 

He  had  a  way  that  did  not  nettle 
Some  few,  but  put  them  on  their  mettle; 
And  an  unfortunate  zeal  (decried!) 
For  "looking  on  the  other  side." 
Some  men  bring  thunder,  others  balm. 
He  only  had  peculiar  calm. 

He  never,  to  my  observation, 
Gave  of  himself  a  "revelation." 
He  never  did  a  thing  of  price 
Or  made  one  "noble  sacrifice." 
Yet  I  have  tasted  Heaven's  wells 
Hearing  his  monosyllables. 


[106] 


A    COLD    TEMPERAMENT 


Never  at  all  discomfited!  .  .  . 
And  should  I  hear  that  he  was  dead, 
Our  old  acquaintance  lapsing  so, — 
How  much  I  learned  from  him  I  know. 
He  never  loved  me,  praised,  or  spurned. 
He  liked  me.    And  from  him  I  learned! 


THE  VIOLIN'S  ENCHANTRESS 


A  ripple  of  light  applause.     We  see  her  stand 
Smiling.    And  now  one  slim  expressive  hand 
Raises  the  lithe,  long  bow 
That  swiftly  dips  and  swirls. 

The  clear  allegro  purls 
Welling  and  welling  from  awakened  strings, — 

Welling  and  spreading  to  an  overflow 
Of  first  sweet  jubilance.     The  lustrous  pine, 

Cherished  against  the  softness  of  her  cheek 
Thrills  'twixt  her  breast  and  arm 
And  gaily,  purely  sings, — 
Brilliantly  seems  to  speak 

In  syllables  divine, — 
More  animate  as  her  fervor  grows  more  warm. 

And  ere  she  holds  us  bound, 
Just  a  delicious,  graceful  girl  she  seems; 

Now,  as  the  prelude  pauses, 

Just  a  slim,  eager  sprite  in  silver  gauzes; 

Then  those  not  blind  to  see 

And  understand  her  dreams 

May  note  the  exquisite  maternity 

Of  gentle  throat  and  breast  and  downcast  eyes,- 
The  fostering,  brooding  tenderness  enwound 

With  this  strange  changeling  child,  her  violin, 
And  hear  an  infant's  small  and  plaintive  cries 

Quaver  and  sob  within 
Those  first  bright  waves  of  sound. 


[107] 


THE   VIOLIN'S   ENCHANTRESS 


Faintly  our  hearts  reply.    Not  yet  the  stress 
Of  deep  emotion  bids  them  throb  and  burn. 

Mere  melody's  enchantments  are  to  learn, — 
Subtle  gradations,  wonder-fraught  finesse, 
Tone-colors,  cadences, — not  yet  that  change 

To  tone  magnificence  and  deeper  storms 
Of  soun'd,  whence  notes  like  vivid  lightnings  leap, 
Transmuting  thoughts  fit  for  the  organ's  sweep 

Of  spacious  fugal  forms 

To  these  taut  strings,  since  Bach  enlarged  their  range. 
Not  yet  the  depth  and  height;  the  passionate  psalms 
Dreamed  nightly  by  the  valiant  brain  of  Brahms. 

Yet  what  expression, — what  a  sorcery 

Of  rhythmic  intonations, 
Pyrotechnic  pizzicatos,  modulations, 

Exhaustless  fluency 

Weaving  and  interweaving! 

Oh,  darkly  yet,  but  darkly  understood 

Is  this   miraculous  instrument's  conceiving! 

O'er  the  elastic  and  tenacious  wood 

Did  not  the  Mantuan  brood, — 
Deft  Piedmontese,  Lombard  lute-fashioners, 

Cremona's  Andreas,  and  Antonio, 
Parisians  tapering  their  master's  bow, 

Guiseppe  Guarnieri,  Stradivar, — 
(Craftsmen  immortal  as  their  smooth  names  are!) 
Through  them  this  music  climbs  aerial  stairs, 
Through  them  thou  soarest,  heart,  tonight — tonight. 
Whither  their  vision  with  her  vision  fares 
This  girl's  glad  heart  takes  flight 
Tonight,  tonight!  — 
The  girl  of  gauzes  still 
Mothering  to  her  will 

The  wizard  curves  from  which  such  glory  springs. 
Her  right  arm  swirls.     Her  left  hand  plucks  the  strings, 
Her  delicate  fingers  move  in  light  alarm. 

Leaning  and  cherishing,  . 
Fifth  by  pure  fifth  each  string 
Sings  to  her  heart's  young  ecstasy,  swept  by  her  swirling  arm. 

Then,  as  the  rhythm  enlarges  to  the  sweep 
Of  her  white  arm's  full  arc, 

Deeper  and  deeper  dark 
Descends  upon  our  souls.    Such  portents  as  in  sleep 

Baffle  its  calm  dominion  with  weird  dreams 
Now  murmur  to  us  from  some  mysterious  steep 

Of  Delphi  or  Dodona.     Caverned  far 
In  the  vast  mountainside,  where  neither  sun  nor  star 
May  reach  with  hallowed  ray  or  rosy  light, 

But  all  is  dreadful  night, 
The  incantations  of  Time's  priestess  sound 
Where,  from  the  smoking  fissures  of  the  ground 
Beneath  her  tripod,  mount  in  fuming  vapor 
Ghosts  of  all  tears  and  laughter,  joy  and  sin, — 
The  vanished  hour,  the  hope  that  might  have  been. 

Pythia  and  oracle  their  phantoms  shape  her, 
Scattering  our  destinies  like  leaves.     And  round  her 
A  midnight  of  deep  notes  grows  still  profounder. 

[108] 


THE    VIOLIN'S   ENCHANTRESS 


Dumb  sorrow  bows  us  down, — when  suddenly 

Our  darkness  bursts  to  day! 
Uprushing  wings,  buoyed  on  ecstasy, 
Storm  past  our  eyes — an  archangelic  flight 

Mounting  to  height  on  height, 
Thronging  the  infinite,  whither  they  fade  away. 

Beneath  us,  as   above, 
Glow  golden  heavens  of  love 

Throbbing  the  thoughts  of  God  like  muffled  thunder, 
Till  sense  is  lost  in  vision,  drowned  in  wonder. 

Then  faintly,  as  from  leagues  below  our  sky, 

Pleads  a  far-penetrating  human  cry, 
Rises  a  long-familiar  earth-born  strain 

Our  hearts  may  not  deny; 
And,  in  a  rush  of  rapture  and  of  pain, 
The  soul  has  found  its  fleshly  home  again. 

Aye,  Circe  of  sound,  once  more  against  a  white 

Vista  of  quivering  light, 
From  a  carved  resonant  case  of  lustrous  pine 

Of  purest  curves  divine 

Whose  grace  created  Hogarth's  famous  line, — 
From  tremoring  sound-post,  ebon  finger-board, 
Your  sinuous  bow  draws  forth  a  deepening  wail 
Older  than  sun-strung  lyre,  Arabian  monochord, 
Rebec  of  wassail  or  lute  of  troubadour! 
Hark  to  the  heart-wrung  wail, 

Creation's  oldest  tale! 
Drawn  from  that  smooth-shaped  and  harmonic  chamber 

Of  warm  and  deep-hued  amber? 
Nay!     As  in  Eden  the  first  man's  heartstrings  thrilled 

Swept  by  the  hand  of  God  to  life  and  love. 

When  the  fresh-glowing  heavens  their  dawn  fulfilled, 

From  the  rich  primal  passion  of  Man  they  pour 

And  soar  above, — 

Those  pleading  notes,  that  wane  and  flame  and  wane 
Like  sun-birds  wounded,   glorying  in   their  pain! 
Here  trees  that  sang  through  age-long  stress  and  strain 
Reach  immortality.     The  forest's  sighing 
Is  prisoned  forever  in  the  wood  it  gave, 
But  Man  matured  the  music  it  must  crave, — 
And  this  is  Man's  deep,  inmost  heart  replying! 

Man's  inmost  heart,  so  secret  from  the  brain 
In  its  strange  agonies  of  joy  and  pain, 

Only  in  music  wholly  may  reveal 

The  deep  faith  that  never  dies,  the  deep  wounds  that  never  heal, 
Since  Jubal  of  the  tribe  of  Cain, 
One  sacred  evening  in  the  land  of  Nod, 
Flamed  on  the  charm.     The  boy  through  sunset  trod 
Wielding  his  rude-hewn  lyre  of  bone  and  horn 
To  awe  his  tribe  unto  their  souls  reborn 
And  strike  them  silent  with  the  speech  of  God. 


[109] 


THE   VIOLIN'S  ENCHANTRESS 

And  with  what  glorious  myth  the  centuries 
Have  fed  this  vestal  fire  unfalteringly! — 
The  Sun-god's  power;   the  spouse  of  Niobe 
(He  whom  the  very  stones  of  Thebes  obeyed); 
Arion,  dolphin-borne  across  the  sea; 

David's  wild  harp,  and  Memnon's  vocal  stone; 
Cecilia,  when  her  saintly  fingers  laid 
Inspired  Heaven  upon  our  earthly  keys, 
And  sounded  forth  the  angels'  secrecies 
Meant  but  for  Heaven  alone! 

Oh,  covenant  of  peace, — 
Oh,  light  where  shadows  cease, — 
Oh,  art  transcending  all  our  human  arts! 

At  last  thy  message  seems 
(Break  not  the  faith  of  dreams!) 
That  here  is  surcease  for  our  burdened  hearts; 
That  here  is  concord  'twixt  our  darkened  Earth 
And  some  sure  Heaven  above, 
Earth  as  our  instrument,  our  Viol  of  Love, 
And  we  like  to  those  sympathetic  wires 
Laid  'neath  its  finger-board — as  men  have  said 

Man's  own  invention  laid 
Consonant  strings,  in  music's  first  rebirth; 

And  when  their  joy  requires 
What  divine  fingers  sweep  Heaven's  chords  in  trance, 

That  we,  by  consonance, 
Answer  beneath  the  sky  that  bounds  our  breath, — 

Answer  beneath  this  shell  of  life  and  death? 
Oh,  truth  in  dreams, — oh,  prayer  of  stricken  hearts, — 

The  Viol  and  its  parts 
Mingling  in  music,  as  this  music  saith! 

Yet  still  the  child,  the  girl,  lost  in  the  wide 

High  spaces  of  a  hall,  that  seems  to  grow 

Greater  than  we  may  know, 
Sounds  her  sweet  s6ul  forgetful,  starry-eyed; 

Against  her  well-loved  music  leans  her  cheek, 
Soft  curve  to  tender  curve, — against  the  sleek 
Resonant  wood  of  a  dead-living  thing 

Nestles  her  shoulder,  whips  the  swirling  bow. 

Murmuring  streams  of  joy,  your  waters  flow 
How  clear  from  cool  rock-springs  of  restfulness, 
Winding  through  woodland  green  where  wild  birds  call 
To  drop  in  many  a  silvern  waterfall!  .  .  . 
Slower  and  yet  more  slow 

The  enchanting  cadence  chimes.  .  .  .  Then,  the  accelerate  stress: 
Passionate,  passionate  in  their  soaring  pride, — 

Wailful,  and  by  their  sorrow  deified, — 

Toward  the  magnificent  summit  of  song  they  strain, 

Those  last  wild  notes  of  perfect  purity. 

That  height  they  gain 

Still  mounting  on  and  on  ...  till  a  swift-rushing  rain 
Of  as  pure  notes — or  echoes — showers  upon  us  all. 

Deep  breathing  holds  the  hall; 
And  we  have  guessed  not  that  the  girl  is  gone; 
For  only  harmony, — God  who  is  harmony, — 
Knows  how  those  living  echoes  linger  on! 


[110] 


PROFITABLE  THINGS 


All  your  other  wares  you  pushed  my  way. 

I  refused  them. 

There  were  things  drew  praise  on  every  shelf, 
Obvious  merits  valued  by  yourself, 
Showy  things  that  caused  the  crowd  to  stay. 
I  could  not  have  used  them. 

Yet  I  stayed.    I  might  have  made  a  slip. 

Private  virtues, 

Cold,  secreted  hoards  of  them,  my  glance 
Pierced  to,  by  a  most  unhappy  chance, 
While  you  stared  and  bit  your  nether  lip — 
That  grimace  the  hurt  use. 

Hoarding  these  you  sinned  in  subtler  ways 

Of  secret  worship: 

"Man  but  steals  my  worth  at  God's  replevin. 
These  will  gain  me  great  applause  in  Heaven. 
I  am  sure  of  the  Almighty's  praise 
For  my  connoisseurship!" 

Nothing— nothing!     Yet  I  searched.     I  must 

Not  leave  embittered. 

Then,  'neath  humbug,  glazed  self-satisfaction, 
Littered  gauds  of  cant,  I  found  retraction 
Of  my  verdict.     Down  among  the  dust 
Something  surely  glittered! 

One  lone  hour  of  agony,  overlaid 

By  this  clutter 

Of  the  thoughts  and  acts  your  world  acclaims! 
One  experience;  hosts  of  futile  aims; 
Once  that  dead  heart  beat — your  soul  was  weighed 
With  the  words  none  utter! 

Men  are  right  to  hide  such  things,  and  deep- 
Battling  lonely. 

Ah,  but  friend,  my  friend, — this  gloating  stealth, 

This  rich  air  o'er  what  you  call  your  wealth! 

Still  so  gulled  by  things  so  barren,  cheap, 
Profitable  only? 


[Ill] 


A  SONG  OF  DAWN  AT  DUSK 


Not  of  sadness,  now  'tis  dusk 

(All  too  often  sung  in  sorrow) 

And  all  certain  outlines  falter 

From  our  world,  a  mist-wreathed  altar,—! 

Not  of  sadness  are  my  dreams 

But  of  sunrise  and  tomorrow. 

Death?    I  dream  the  death  of  sorrow. 

As  of  old  our  life  unfolds 
Like  a  pageant  never-ended 
With  new  sunlit,  moonlit  hours, 
Pristine  dew  and  virgin  flowers, 
Fresher  hues  and  fairer  hopes 
In  a  sunrise  still  more  splendid 
Till  the  earth  and  stars  be  ended. 

Slowly,  slowly,  yet  as  sure 

As  the  colors  come  in  heaven, — 

Come  with  morning,  purer,  rarer, 

Wane  with  evening,  richer,  fairer,— 

Dreams  that  high  eternal  mind 

Through  whose  joy  green  earth  was  given 

Unto  Man,  and  thought  of  Heaven. 

Safely,  Love,  I  hold  your  hand 
And  your  eyes  wake  mine  to  wonder 
On  the  transience  of  all  sorrow 
And  the  surety  of  to-morrow, 
Each  tomorrow  lifting  sunward 
From  a  night  so  soon  swept  under 
As  our  world  rolls  on  in  wonder. 

As  of  old  the  seasons  wheel, 
But  if  faith  be  vernal  ever 
Of  new  hopes  and  realizations 
And  new  sunrise  on  the  nations 
Can  we  doubt  the  coast  we  lift 
When  life's  mists  and  clouds  dissever 
In  the  last  dawn  come  forever? 

Not  while  heart  now  answers  heart 
With  the  words  beyond  all  speaking, 
Now  that  all  familiar  being 
Grows  so  sacred  to  foreseeing, 
Not  while  love  is  ours  as  now, 
Not  while  soul  toward  soul  is  seeking 
In  the  joy  above  all  speaking! 


[112] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 


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29Apr'53HO 


AUG  12 1982 
JAN  12 1983 

RETO     JUL  2  7  1982 


MAR1    1954 


LD  21-100m-9,'48(B399sl6)476 


U.  C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


